THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,   Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


The  Immaculate  Conception,  by  Murillo. 


SPAIN 


AND    THE 


SPANIARDS 

BY 

EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  HOLLAND,"  "  CONSTANTINOPLE,"  BTC. 
TRANSLATED    FROM    THE   TENTH    EDITION    OF   THE    ITALIAN    BY 

STANLEY  RHOADS  YARNALL,  M.  A. 
ILLUSTRATED. 

IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOL.    I. 


THE  INTERNATIONAL  PRESS 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO 

PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY 
HENRY   T.  COATES  &  CO. 


Stack 
Annex 


4 


v.t 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BARCELONA 7 

SARAGOSSA 43 

BURGOS 89 

VALLADOLID 127 

MADRID 151 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

VOLUME  I. 


PAGE 

THE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION,  BY  MURILLO.  Frontispiece. 

PRIEST  AND  SLEEPING  GYPSY-OIBL • 

BARCELONA 22 

ANDALUSIAN  PEASANT-GIRLS 36 

STREET  IN  SARAGOSSA     58 

CATHEDRAL  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  THE  PILLAR,  SARAGOSSA  .  60 

WATER-CARRIER 92 

BURGOS  CATHEDRAL 104 

STREET  IN  VALLADOLID 130 

ROYAL  PALACE,  MADRID 154 

FOUNTAIN  OF  CYBELE,  ALCALA,  MADRID 166 

ROYAL  PICTURE-GALLERY,  MADRID 180 

DUKE  D'OLIVARES,  BY  VELASQUEZ 188 

VIRGIN  OF  THE  NAPKIN,  BY  MURILLO     190 

VELASQUEZ'S  FORGE  OF  VULCAN 194 

IMPLANTING  THE  BANDILLERA 214 

THE  CHARGE 214 

THE  PKOCESSIONAL  ENTRANCE 220 

KILL  ATTACKING  A  PICADOR 220 

MATADORS,  MADRID 240 

THE  ESCURIAL  ; 258 

TOMB  OF  CHARLES  V.,  ESCURIAL 266 

CHAMBER    OF    DEPUTIES    AND    STATUE    OF    CERVANTES, 

MADRID   .                                                                    .  274 


BARCELONA. 


Priest  and  Sleeping  Gypsy  Girl. 


BARCELONA. 


IT  was  a  rainy  morning  in  February,  and  lacked 
an  hour  of  sunrise.  My  mother  accompanied  me 
to  the  hall,  anxiously  repeating  all  the  counsels  she 
had  been  giving  me  for  a  month :  then  she  threw 
her  arms  about  my  neck,  burst  into  tears,  and  dis- 
appeared. I  stood  a  moment  stricken  to  the  heart, 
looking  at  the  door,  on  the  point  of  calling  out, 
"  Let  me  in !  I  am  not  going !  I  will  stay  with 
thee  !  "  Then  I  ran  down  the  stairs  like  an  escap- 
ing thief.  When  I  was  in  the  street  it  seemed  that 
the  waves  of  the  sea  and  the  peaks  of  the  Pyrenees 
were  already  lying  between  me  and  my  home.  But, 
although  I  had  for  a  long  time  looked  forward  to 
that  day  with  feverish  impatience,  I  was  not  at  all 
cheerful.  At  a  turn  of  the  street  I  met  my  friend 
the  doctor  on  his  way  to  the  hospital.  He  had  not 
seen  me  for  a  month,  and  naturally  asked : 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  Spain,"  I  replied. 

But  he  would  not  believe  me,  so  far  was  my 
frowning,  melancholy  face  from  promising  a  pleas- 
ure-trip. Through  the  entire  journey  from  Turin 


10  BARCELONA. 

to  Genoa  I  thought  only  of  ray  mother,  of  my 
room,  now  empty,  of  my  little  library,  of  all  the 
pleasant  habits  of  my  domestic  life,  all  of  which  I 
was  leaving  for  many  months. 

But,  arrived  at  Genoa,  the  sight  of  the  sea,  the 
gardens  of  the  Acquasola,  and  the  company  of  Anton 
Giulio  Barili  restored  me  to  serenity  and  cheerful- 
ness. I  recollect  that  as  I  was  about  to  step  into 
the  boat  that  was  to  take  me  to  the  ship  a  porter 
handed  me  a  letter  which  contained  only  these 
words :  "  Sad  news  from  Spain.  The  condition  of 
an  Italian  at  Madrid  in  time  of  insurrection  against 
the  king  would  be  perilous.  Do  you  persist  in 
going  ?  Consider !  "  I  leaped  into  the  boat  and  was 
off.  Shortly  before  the  ship  sailed  two  officers  came 
to  bid  me  good-bye.  I  can  still  see  them  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  boat  as  the  ship  began  to  move. 

"  Bring  me  a  Toledo  blade  !  "  they  cried. 

"  Bring  me  a  bottle  of  Xeres !  " 

"  Bring  me  a  guitar !  an  Andalusian  hat !  a 
stiletto ! " 

A  little  while,  and  I  could  see  only  their  white  hand- 
kerchiefs and  hear  their  last  cry :  I  tried  to  answer, 
but  my  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth ; 
I  began  to  laugh,  but  brushed  my  hand  across  my 
eyes.  Soon  I  retired  to  my  little  hole  of  a  state- 
room, where,  lulled  into  a  delicious  sleep,  I  dreamed 
of  my  mother,  my  purse,  France,  and  Andalusia. 
At  dawn  I  awoke,  and  was  soon  on  deck.  We  were 


BARCELONA.  11 

not  far  from  the  coast,  the  French  coast — my  first 
view  of  a  foreign  coast.  Strange  !  I  couM  not  look 
at  it  enough,  and  a  thousand  fugitive  thoughts 
passed  through  my  head,  and  I  said,  "Is  it  France, 
in  very  truth  ?  And  is  it  I  who  am  here  ?  "  I 
began  to  doubt  my  own  identity. 

At  mid-day  Marseilles  came  into  view.  The  first 
sight  of  a  great  maritime  city  fills  one  with  an 
amazement  which  destroys  the  pleasure  of  the 
marvel.  I  see,  as  through  a  mist,  a  vast  forest  of 
ships ;  a  waterman  who  stretches  out  his  hand  and 
addresses  me  in  an  incomprehensible  jargon ;  a 
customs  official  who,  in  accordance  with  some  law, 
makes  me  pay  deux  sous  pour  hs  Prussiens  ;  then  a 
dark  room  in  a  hotel ;  then  the  longest  streets, 
endless  squares,  a  throng  of  people  and  of  carriages  ; 
troops  of  Zouaves,  unknown  regimentals,  a  mingling 
of  lights  and  of  voices,  and  finally  come  weariness 
and  profound  sadness,  which  end  in  uneasy  sleep. 

By  daybreak  on  the  following  morning  I  was  in 
a  railway-carriage  on  my  way  from  Marseilles  to 
Perpignan,  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  ten  Zouave 
officers  arrived  from  Africa  the  previous  day,  some 
with  crutches,  some  with  canes,  some  with  bandaged 
arms ;  but  all  as  happy  and  boisterous  as  so  many 
school-boys.  It  was  a  long  journey,  consequently 
conversation  was  necessary.  However,  from  all  I 
had  heard  of  the  bitterness  with  which  the  French 
regarded  us,  I  did  not  venture  to  open  my  mouth. 


12  BARCELONA. 

But  how  foolish  !  One  of  them  spoke  the  word  and 
the  conversation  was  started  :  "  An  Italian  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

It  was  as  good  as  a  holiday.  All  but  one  had 
fought  in  Italy  ;  one  had  been  wounded  at  Magenta. 
They  began  to  tell  anecdotes  of  Genoa,  of  Turin, 
of  Milan,  to  ask  a  thousand  questions,  to  describe 
their  life  in  Africa. 

One  began  to  discuss  the  Pope.  "  Oh  !  "  said  I 
to  myself.  Why  ?  He  talked  even  stronger  than  I 
should  have  done :  he  said  that  we  ought  to  have 
cut  the  knot  of  the  question,  and  to  have  gone  to 
the  root  of  the  matter  without  considering  the 
peasantry. 

Meantime,  as  we  were  approaching  the  Pyrenees, 
I  amused  myself  by  observing  the  increasing  differ- 
ence in  the  pronunciation  of  the  passengers  who 
entered  the  carriage ;  by  remarking  how  the  French 
language  died,  so  to  speak,  into  the  Spanish ;  by 
feeling  how  near  Spain  was  growing  until  Perpignan 
was  reached ;  and  as  I  hurried  into  a  diligence 
I  heard  the  first  Buenos  dias  and  Buen  viaje,  so 
pure  and  sonorous  that  the  words  gave  me  infinite 
pleasure.  Nevertheless,  they  do  not  speak  Spanish 
at  Perpignan,  but  they  use  a  dialect  formed  by  a 
mingling  of  French,  Marseillaise,  and  Catalan, 
unpleasant  to  the  ear.  I  alighted  from  the  dili- 
gence at  the  hotel  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
officers,  gentlemen,  Englishmen,  and  trunks.  A 


BAECELONA.  13 

waiter  compelled  me  to  sit  down  at  a  table  already 
spread:  I  ate  until  I  almost  strangled,  and  was 
hurried  into  another  diligence  and  away. 

Ah  me!  I  had  so  long  cherished  the  thought  of 
crossing  the  Pyrenees,  and  I  now  was  forced  to 
make  the  journey  by  night.  Before  we  arrived  at 
the  foothills  it  was  dark.  Through  the  long,  long 
hours,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  I  saw  only  a 
bit  of  the  road  lit  up  by  the  lights  of  the  lantern  of 
the  diligence,  the  black  outline  of  some  mountain, 
the  projecting  rocks,  which  seemed  to  be  within 
arms'  reach  of  the  window,  and  I  heard  only  the 
regular  tramping  of  the  horses  and  the  whistling  of 
an  accursed  wind  which  blew  without  a  moment's 
intermission. 

Beside  me  sat  an  American  from  the  United 
States,  a  young  man,  the  most  original  fellow  in  the 
world,  who  slept  I  know  not  how  many  hours  with 
his  head  on  my  shoulder.  Now  and  then  he  roused 
himself  to  exclaim  in  a  lamentable  voice,  "  Ah  what 
a  night !  what  a  horrible  night ! "  without  per- 
ceiving that  with  his  head  he  gave  me  an  additional 
reason  for  making  the  same  lament. 

At  the  first  stopping-place  we  both  alighted  and 
entered  a  little  hostelry  to  get  a  glass  of  liquor ;  my 
fellow-traveller  asked  me  if  I  was  travelling  on 
business.  "  No,  sir,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  am  travelling  for 
pleasure  ;  and  you,  if  I  may  ask  ?  "— "  I  am  travel- 
ling for  love,"  he  replied  with  perfect  gravity. — 


14  BARCELONA. 

"  For  love ! — "  And  then,  unasked,  he  told  me  a 
long  story  of  an  unhappy  love-affair,  of  a  deferred 
marriage,  of  abductions  and  duels,  and  I  know  not 
what  else ;  and  finally  he  said  he  was  travelling  for 
a  change  of  scene  to  help  him  forget  the  lady  of  his 
affections.  And,  in  fact,  he  sought  distraction  to 
the  top  of  his  bent,  for  at  every  inn  where  we 
stopped,  from  the  beginning  of  our  journey  until  we 
arrived  at  Gerona,  he  did  nothing  but  tease  the 
maids — always  with  the  utmost  gravity,  it  is  true, 
but  nevertheless  with  an  audacity  which  even  his 
desire  for  distraction  failed  to  justify. 

Three  hours  after  midnight  we  arrived  at  the 
frontier.  "  Estamos  en  Espana  ! "  (We  are  in 
Spain !)  cried  a  voice.  The  diligence  came  to  a 
stop.  The  American  and  I  leaped  again  to  the 
ground,  and  with  great  curiosity  entered  a  little  inn 
to  see  the  first  sons  of  Spain  within  the  walls  of  a 
Spanish  house. 

We  found  a  half-dozen  customs  officials,  the  host, 
his  wife,  and  children  sitting  around  a  brasier. 
They  greeted  us  at  once.  I  asked  a  number  of 
questions,  and  they  answered  in  an  open,  spirited 
manner,  which  I  had  not  expected  to  find  among  the 
Catalans,  who  are  described  in  the  gazetteers  as  a 
rude  people  of  few  words.  I  asked  if  they  had 
anything  to  eat,  and  they  brought  in  the  famous 
Spanish  clwrizo,  a  sort  of  sausage,  which  is  over- 


BARCELONA.  15 

seasoned   with   pepper   and   burns   the    stomach,   a 
bottle  of  sweet  wine,  and  some  hard  bread. 

"  Well ;  what  is  your  king  doing  ?  "  I  asked  of 
an  official  after  I  had  spit  out  the  first  mouthful. 
The  man  to  whom  I  spoke  seemed  embarrassed, 
looked  first  at  me,  then  at  the  others,  and  finally 
made  this  very  strange  answer  :  "  Esta  reinando"  (He 
is  reigning).  They  all  commenced  to  laugh,  and 
while  I  was  preparing  a  closer  question,  I  became 
conscious  of  a  whisper  in  my  ear  :  "  Es  un  republi- 
cano  "  (He  is  a  republican).  I  turned  and  saw  mine 
host  looking  into  the  air.  "  I  understand,"  said  I, 
and  changed  the  subject.  When  we  had  climbed 
again  into  the  diligence  my  companion  and  I  had  a 
good  laugh  over  the  warning  of  the  host,  and  we 
both  expressed  our  surprise  that  a  person  of  his 
class  should  have  taken  the  political  opinions  of  the 
officials  so  seriously ;  but  at  the  inns  where  we 
afterward  stopped  we  learned  better.  In  every  one 
of  them  we  found  the  host  or  some  adventurer  read- 
ing the  paper  to  a  group  of  attentive  peasants. 
Now  and  then  the  reading  would  be  interrupted  by 
a  political  discussion,  which  I  could  not  understand, 
because  they  used  the  Catalan  dialect,  but  I  could 
get  the  drift  of  what  they  were  saying  by  the  aid 
of  the  paper  which  I  had  heard  them  reading. 
Well,  I  must  say,  among  all  of  those  groups  there 
circulated  a  current  of  republican  thought  which 
would  have  made  the  stoutest  royalist  tremble.  One 


16  BARCELONA. 

of  them,  a  man  with  a  fierce  scowl  and  a  deep 
voice,  after  he  had  spoken  a  short  time  to  a  group 
of  silent  auditors,  turned  to  me,  whom  by  my 
impure  Castilian  accent  he  supposed  to  be  a  French- 
man, and  said  with  great  solemnity,  "Let  me  tell 
you  something,  cabaUero  !  " — "  What  is  it  ?  " — "  I 
tell  you,"  he  replied,  "that  Spain  is  in  a  worse 
plight  than  France ; "  and  after  that  remark  he 
began  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  bowed 
head  and  with  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast. 
Others  spoke  confusedly  of  the  Cortes,  of  the  min- 
istry, of  political  ambitions,  breaches  of  faith,  and 
other  dreadful  things.  One  person  only,  a  girl  at  a 
restaurant  in  Figueras,  noticing  that  I  was  an 
Italian,  said  to  me  with  a  smile,  "  Now  we  have  an 
Italian  king."  And  a  little  while  later,  as  we  were 
going  out,  she  added  with  graceful  simplicity,  "I 
like  him." 

When  we  arrived  at  Gerona  it  was  still  night. 
There  King  Amadeus,  after  a  joyful  welcome,  placed 
a  stone  in  the  house  where  General  Alvarez  lodged 
during  the  famous  siege  of  1809. 

We  passed  through  the  city,  which  seemed  to  us 
of  great  proportions,  sleepy  as  we  were  and  impa- 
tient to  tumble  into  our  corners  of  the  railroad 
carriage.  Finally  we  reached  the  station,  and  by 
dawn  were  on  our  way  to  Barcelona. 

Sleep !    It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  the  sun 


BARCELONA.  17 

rise  in  Spain.  How  could  I  have  slept  ?  I  put  my 
face  close  to  the  window,  and  did  not  turn  niy  head 
until  we  came  to  Barcelona.  Ah !  there  is  no 
greater  pleasure  than  that  one  feels  upon  entering 
an  unfamiliar  country,  with  one's  imagination  pre- 
pared for  the  sight  of  new  and  wonderful  objects, 
with  a  thousand  memories  of  the  fanciful  descrip- 
tions of  books  in  one's  head,  free  from  anxiety  and 
free  from  care. 

To  press  forward  into  that  land,  to  bend  one's 
glance  eagerly  in  every  direction  in  search  of  some- 
thing which  will  convince  one,  if  he  is  not  already 
sure  of  the  fact,  that  he  is  really  there — to  grow 
conscious  of  it  little  by  little,  now  by  the  dress  of  a 
peasant,  now  by  a  tree,  again  by  a  house  ;  to  notice 
as  one  advances  the  growing  frequency  of  those 
signs,  those  colors,  those  forms,  and  to  compare  all 
those  things  with  the  mental  picture  one  had  pre- 
viously formed;  to  find  a  field  for  curiosity  in 
everything  upon  which  the  eye  rests  or  which 
strikes  the  ear, — the  appearance  of  the  people,  their 
gestures,  their  accent,  their  conversation, — the 
exclamations  of  surprise  at  every  step.  To  feel 
one's  mind  expanding  and  growing  clear ;  so  long  to 
arrive  at  once  and  yet  never  to  arrive ;  to  ask  a 
thousand  questions  of  one's  companions ;  to  make  a 
sketch  of  a  village  or  of  a  group  of  peasants ;  to 
say  ten  times  an  hour,  "  I  am  here !  "  and  to  think 
of  telling  all  about  it  some  day, — this  is  truly  the 
VOL.  I.— 2 


18  BARCELONA. 

liveliest  and  most  varied  of  human  pleasures.     The 
American  was  snoring. 

The  part  of  Catalonia  through  which  one  passes 
from  Gerona  to  Barcelona  is  a  varied,  fertile,  and 
highly-cultivated  country.    It  is  a  succession  of  little 
valleys  flanked  by  gently  sloping  hills,  with  tracts  of 
heavy  woodland,  roaring  streams,  gorges,  and  ancient 
castles ;  clothed  with  a  vegetation  luxuriant  and  hardy 
and  of  a  varied  green,  which  reminds  one  of  the 
severe  aspect  of  the  Alpine  valleys.     The  landscape 
is  enlivened  by  the  picturesque  dress  of  the  peasants, 
which  corresponds  admirably  to  the  fierceness  of  the 
Catalan    character.     The  first  peasants  I  saw  were 
dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  black  velvet,  and  wore 
about  their  necks  a  sort  of  shawl  with  red  and  white 
stripes,  and  on  their  heads    little  Zouave  caps  of 
bright  red  falling  to  the  shoulder.     Some  wore  a  sort 
of  buskin  of  skins  laced  to  the  knee,  others  a  pair 
of  canvas  shoes    shaped  like  slippers,  with  corded 
soles,  open  in  front,  and  tied  about  the  foot  with  in- 
terlacing black  ribbons — a  habit,  in  fine,  easy  and 
elegant,  and  at  the  same  time  severe.     The  weather 
was  not  very  cold,  but  they  were  all  bundled  up  in 
their  shawls,  so  that  only  the  tip  of  the  nose  or  the 
end  of  the  cigarette  was  to  be  seen.    They  had  the  air 
of  gentlemen  coming  from  the  theatre.    This  effect  is 
produced  not  merely  by  the  shawls,  but  by  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  worn — falling  at  the  side,  so  that  the 
arrangement  appears  accidental,  with  those  plaits  and 


BARCELONA.  19 

foldings  which  add  the  grace  of  a  mantilla  and  dig- 
nity of  a  cloak.     At  every  railway-station  there  was 
a  group  of  men,  each  wearing  a  shawl  of  different 
color,  and  not  a  few  dressed  in  fine  new  cloth  :  almost 
all  were  very  clean,  and  all  had  a  dignity  of  bearing 
which  heightened  the  effect  of  their  picturesque  cos- 
tume.    There  were  a  few  dark  faces,  but  most  of 
them  were  fair,  with  lively  black  eyes,  lacking,  how- 
ever, the  fire  and  vivacity  of  the  Andalusian  glances. 
Gradually  as  one  advances  the  villages,  houses, 
bridges,  and  aqueducts  become  most  frequent,  with 
all  those  things  which  announce  the  proximity  of  a 
rich    and    populous    commercial    city.      Granallers, 
Sant'  Andrea  de  Palomar,  and  Clot  are  surrounded 
by  factories,  villas,  parks,  and  gardens.     All  along 
the  way  one  sees  long  rows  of  carts,  troops  of  peas- 
ants, and  herds  of  cattle ;  the  stations  are  crowded 
with  passengers.    If  one  did  not  know  where  he  was, 
he  might  think  he  was  crossing  a  part  of  England 
rather  than  a  province  of  Spain.    Once  past  the  station 
of  Clot,  the  last  stop  before  the  arrival  at  Barcelona,  one 
sees  on  every  side  huge  brick  buildings,  long  walls, 
heaps  of  building  material,  smoking  chimneys,  stacks 
of  workshops,  and  many  laboring-men,  and  hears,  or 
imagines  he  hears,  a  muffled  roar,  growing  in  extent 
and  volume,  which  seems  like  the  labored  breathing 
of  a  great  city  at  its  work.     At  last  one  can  see  all 
Barcelona — at  a  glance  the  harbor,  the  sea,  a  coronet 
of  hills — and  it  all  appears  and  disappears  in  a  mo- 


20  BARCELONA. 

ment.  and  you  are  sitting  in  the  station  with  tingling 
nerves  and  a  confused  brain. 

A  diligence  as  large  as  a  railway-carriage  took  me 
to  a  neighboring  hotel,  when,  as  soon  as  I  entered,  I 
heard  the  Italian  speech.  I  confess  that  this  was  as 
great  a  pleasure  as  if  I  had  been  an  interminable  dis- 
tance from  Italy  and  a  year  absent  from  home.  But 
it  was  a  pleasure  of  short  duration.  A  porter,  the 
same  one  whom  I  had  heard  speaking,  showed  me  to 
my  room,  and,  doubtless  assured  by  my  smile  that  I 
was  a  fellow-countryman,  asked  politely, 

"  Have  you  made  an  end  of  arriving  ?" 

"  Made  an  end  of  arriving  ?"  I  asked  in  my  turn, 
elevating  my  eyebrows. 

I  must  here  note  that  in  Spanish  the  word  acabor 
(to  make  an  end  of  doing  a  thing)  corresponds  to  the 
French  expression  venir  de  lafaire.  Consequently  I 
did  not  at  once  understand  what  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  the  porter  replied,  "  I  ask  the  cavalier e 
if  he  has  alighted  the  selfsame  hour  from  the  way 
of  iron  ?" 

"  Selfsame  hour  ?  Way  of  iron  ?  What  sort  of 
Italian  is  this,  my  friend  ?" 

He  was  a  little  disconcerted. 

However,  I  afterward  discovered  that  there  is  in 
Barcleona  a  large  number  of  hotel-porters,  of  waiters 
in  the  restaurants,  cooks,  and  servants  of  all  kinds — 
Piedmontese  for  the  most  part  from  the  province  of 
Navarre — who  have  lived  in  Spain  from  boyhood  and 


BARCELONA.  21 

speak  this  dreadful  jargon  composed  of  French, 
Italian,  Castilian,  Catalan,  and  Piedmontese.  How- 
ever, they  do  not  use  this  dialect  in  addressing  the 
Spanish  people,  for  they  all  know  Spanish,  but  only 
to  Italian  travellers  in  a  playful  spirit,  to  let  them 
see  that  they  have  not  forgotten  the  speech  of  their 
fatherland. 

This  explains  the  fact  that  I  have  heard  many 
Catalonians  say,  ll  Oh  !  there  is  very  little  difference 
between  your  language  and  ours."  I  should  think 
so !  I  ought  also  to  repeat  the  words  which  a  Cas- 
tilian singer  addressed  to  me  in  a  tone  of  lofty  benev- 
olence as  we  were  conversing  on  the  boat  which  bore 
me  to  Marseilles  five  weeks  later :  "  The  Italian 
language  is  the  most  beautiful  of  the  dialects  formed 
from  ours." 

As  soon  as  I  removed  the  traces  which  the  horrible 
night  of  the  crossing  of  the  Pyrenees  had  left  upon 
me  I  sallied  forth  from  the  hotel  and  began  to  wander 
about  the  streets. 

Barcelona  is,  in  appearance,  the  least  Spanish  of 
the  cities  of  Spain.  Great  buildings — very  few  of 
which  are  old — long  streets,  regular  squares,  shops, 
theatres,  large  and  splendid  restaurants,  a  continuous 
moving  throng  of  people,  carriages,  and  carts  from 
the  water  front  to  the  centre  of  the  city,  and  thence 
to  the  outskirts,  just  as  at  Genoa,  Naples,  and  Mar- 
seilles. A  very  wide,  straight  street  called  the 


22  BARCELONA. 

Ranibla,  shaded  by  two  rows  of  trees,  divides  the 
city  from  the  harbor  to  the  hills.  A  fine  promenade, 
flanked  by  new  houses,  stretches  along  the  seashore 
above  a  high  dyke  of  masonry  built  like  a  terrace, 
against  which  the  waves  beat.  A  suburb  of  vast 
proportions,  almost  another  city,  extends  toward  the 
north,  and  on  every  side  new  houses  break  the  old 
enclosure,  spread  over  the  fields,  even  to  the  foot  of 
the  hills,  range  themselves  in  endless  rows  until  they 
reach  the  neighboring  villages,  and  on  all  the  cir- 
cling hills  rise  villas  and  palaces  and  factories,  which 
dispute  the  land  and  crowd  each  other  as  they  rise 
even  higher  and  higher,  forming  a  noble  coronet 
about  the  brow  of  the  city.  Everywhere  they  are 
creating,  transforming,  renewing ;  the  people  work 
and  prosper,  and  Barcelona  flourishes. 

I  saw  the  last  days  of  the  Carnival.  Through  the 
streets  passed  long  processions  of  giants,  devils, 
princes,  clowns,  warriors,  and  crowds  of  certain 
figures  whom  I  always  have  the  misfortune  to  en- 
counter the  world  over.  They  were  dressed  in  yel- 
low and  carried  long  staves,  at  the  ends  of  which 
purses  were  bound :  these  they  stick  under  every 
one's  nose,  into  the  shops  and  windows,  even  to  the 
second  stories  of  the  houses,  begging  alms — in  whose 
name  I  know  not,  but  which  were  most  likely  spent 
in  some  classic  orgy  at  the  close  of  the  Carnival. 

The  most  curious  sight  which  I  saw  was  the  mas- 


Barcelona. 


BARCELONA.  23 

querade  of  the  children.  It  is  the  custom  to  dress 
the  boys  under  the  age  of  eight  years  like  men,  after 
the  French  fashion,  in  complete  ball-dress,  with  white 
gloves,  great  moustaches,  and  long  flowing  hair :  some 
are  dressed  like  the  Spanish  grandees,  bedecked  with 
ribbons  and  bangles ;  others  like  Catalan  peasants, 
with  the  jaunty  cap  and  the  mantle.  The  little  girls 
appear  as  court-ladies,  Amazons,  and  poetesses  with 
lyres  and  laurel  crowns ;  and  boys  and  girls  in  the 
costumes  of  the  different  provinces  of  the  kingdom — 
one  as  a  flower-girl  of  Valencia,  another  as  an  Anda- 
lusian  gypsy  or  a  Basque  mountainer — in  the  gayest 
and  most  picturesque  costumes  imaginable.  Their 
parents  lead  them  by  the  hand  in  the  procession,  and 
it  is  a  tournament  of  good  taste,  of  fantasy,  and  dis- 
play in  which  the  people  share  with  great  delight. 

While  I  was  trying  to  find  my  way  to  the  cathedral 
I  met  a  company  of  Spanish  soldiers.  I  stopped  to 
look  at  them,  recollecting  the  picture  which  Baretti 
draws  when  he  tells  how  they  assailed  him  in  a 
hotel,  one  taking  the  salad  from  his  plate,  while 
another  snatched  the  leg  of  a  fowl  from  his  mouth. 
At  first  sight  they  resemble  the  French  soldiers,  who 
also  wear  the  red  breeches  and  gray  coat  reaching  to 
the  knee.  The  only  noticeable  difference  is  in  the 
covering  of  the  head.  The  Spanish  wear  a  parti- 
colored cap,  flat  behind  and  curved  in  front,  and 
fitted  with  a  visor  which  turns  down  over  the  fore- 
head. The  caps,  which  are  made  of  gray  cloth,  are 


24  BARCELONA. 

light,  durable,  and  pleasing  to  the  eye,  and  are  known 
by  the  name  of  their  inventor,  Ros  de  Olano,  general 
and  poet,  who  patterned  them  after  his  hunting-cap. 
The  greater  part  of  the  soldiers  whom  I  saw — they 
were  all  in  the  infantry — were  young  men,  short  of 
stature,  swarthy,  alert,  and  clean,  as  one  would  im- 
agine the  soldiers  of  an  army  which  at  one  time  had 
the  lightest  and  most  effective  infantry  in  Europe. 
Indeed,  the  Spanish  infantry  has  the  reputation  of 
containing  the  best  walkers  and  swiftest  runners. 
The  men  are  temperate,  spirited,  and  full  of  a  na- 
tional pride,  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  get  an  adequate 
idea  without  studying  them  closely.  The  officers 
wear  a  short  black  coat  like  that  of  the  Italian  offi- 
cers. When  off  duty  they  are  in  the  habit  of  wear- 
ing the  coat  open,  thereby  revealing  a  waistcoat  but- 
toned to  the  chin.  In  the  hours  of  leisure  they  do 
not  wear  their  swords ;  on  the  march,  like  the  rank 
and  file,  they  wear  a  sort  of  gaiter  of  black  cloth 
reaching  almost  to  the  knee.  A  regiment  of  foot- 
soldiers  completely  equipped  for  action  presents  an 
appearance  at  once  pleasing  and  martial. 

The  cathedral  of  Barcelona,  in  the  Gothic  style, 
surmounted  by  noble  towers,  is  worthy  of  standing 
beside  the  most  beautiful  edifices  in  Spain.  The 
interior  is  formed  of  three  vast  naves,  separated  by 
two  rows  of  very  high  pillars  slender  and  graceful 
in  form.  The  choir,  situated  in  the  middle  of  the 
church,  is  profusely  decorated  with  bas-reliefs, 


BARCELONA.  25 

filigree-work,  and  small  images.  Beneath  the  sanc- 
tuary lies  a  small  subterranean  chapel  which  is 
always  lighted,  and  in  its  centre  is  the  tomb  of 
Eulalia,  which  one  may  see  by  looking  through  one 
of  the  little  windows  opening  from  the  sanctuary. 
There  is  a  tradition  that  the  murderers  of  the  saint, 
who  was  very  beautiful,  wished  before  putting  her 
to  death  to  look  upon  her  body,  but  while  they  were 
taking  off  her  last  covering  a  thick  cloud  enveloped 
her  and  hid  her  from  their  sight.  Her  body  still 
remains  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  when  she  was 
alive,  and  no  human  eye  may  endure  to  look  upon 
it.  Once  an  incautious  bishop  (after  the  lapse  of  a 
century)  wished  to  open  the  tomb  just  to  see  the 
sacred  remains,  but  even  as  he  looked  he  was 
smitten  with  blindness. 

In  a  little  chapel  to  the  right  of  the  great  altar, 
lighted  by  many  candles,  one  sees  a  crucifix  of 
colored  wood,  with  the  Christ's  figure  inclined  to  one 
side.  It  is  said  that  this  image  was  carried  on  a 
Spanish  ship  at  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  and  that  it  so 
bent  itself  to  avoid  a  cannon-ball  which  it  saw 
coming  straight  for  its  heart.  From  the  arched 
roof  of  the  same  chapel  hangs  a  little  galley  with 
all  its  oars — modelled  after  the  boat  in  which  Don 
John  of  Austria  fought  against  the  Turks.  Below 
the  organ,  of  Gothic  construction  and  covered  with 
great  pictorial  tapestries,  hangs  a  huge  Saracen's 
head  with  a  gaping  mouth,  from  which,  in  the  olden 


26  BARCELONA. 

times,  candies  poured  forth  for  the  children.  In 
another  chapel  one  may  see  a  beautiful  marble 
tomb,  and  also  some  valuable  paintings  by  Villa- 
domat,  a  Barcelonian  painter  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

The  church  is  dark  and  mysterious.  Beside  it 
rises  a  cloister,  supported  by  grand  pilasters,  formed 
of  delicate  columns  and  surmounted  by  richly-carved 
capitals  depicting  scenes  from  Bible  history.  In 
the  cloisters,  in  the  church,  in  the  square  lying 
before  it,  in  the  narrow  streets  running  on  either 
side,  there  broods  a  spirit  of  contemplative  peace 
which  allures  and  at  the  same  time  saddens  one  like 
the  gardens  of  a  cemetery.  A  group  of  horrid 
bearded  old  women  guard  the  door. 

After  one  has  visited  the  cathedral  there  are  no 
other  great  monuments  to  be  seen  in  the  city.  In 
the  Square  of  the  Constitution  are  two  palaces, 
called  the  House  of  the  Deputation  and  the  Consis- 
torial,  the  first  built  in  the  sixteenth,  the  other  in 
the  fourteenth,  century.  These  buildings  still 
retain  some  old,  noteworthy  features — the  one  a 
door,  the  other  a  court. 

On  one  side  of  the  House  of  the  Deputation  is  the 
rich  Gothic  facade  of  the  Chapel  of  Saint  George. 
Here  is  a  palace  of  the  Inquisition,  with  a  narrow 
court,  windows  with  heavy  iron  bars,  and  secret 
passages,  but  it  has  been  almost  entirely  remodelled 
on  the  old  plans.  There  are  some  enormous  Roman 


BARCELONA.  27 

columns  in  the  Street  of  Paradise,  lost  in  the  midst 
of  modern  buildings,  surrounded  by  tortuous  stair- 
cases and  gloomy  chambers. 

There  is  nothing  else  worth  the  attention  of  an 
artist.  However,  in  compensation  there  are  foun- 
tains with  rostral  columns,  pyramids,  statues, 
avenues  lined  with  villas  and  gardens,  and  cafe's  and 
inns ;  a  circus  for  bull-fights  that  has  a  capacity  of 
seating  ten  thousand  spectators ;  a  town  which 
covers  a  strip  of  land  enclosing  the  harbor,  laid  out 
with  the  symmetry  of  a  chequer-board,  and  peopled 
by  ten  thousand  seamen ;  a  number  of  libraries,  a 
very  rich  museum  of  natural  history,  and  a  reposi- 
tory of  archives  which  contains  a  vast  collection  of 
historical  documents  dating  from  the  ninth  century 
to  our  times,  which  is  to  say  from  the  first  Courts 
of  Catalonia  to  the  War  of  Independence. 

Of  the  objects  outside  of  the  city,  the  most 
remarkable  is  the  cemetery,  about  a  half-hour's  ride 
distant  from  the  gates,  in  the  midst  of  an  extended 
plain.  Seen  from  a  point  just  outside  of  the 
entrance,  it  looks  like  a  garden,  and  one  quickens 
one's  pace  with  a  feeling  of  pleased  curiosity.  But, 
once  past  the  gate,  one  is  confronted  by  a  novel 
spectacle,  indescribable,  and  wholly  different  from 
one's  expectation.  One  is  in  the  midst  of  a  silent 
city,  traversed  by  long,  deserted  streets,  bordered 
by  straight  walls  of  equal  height,  which  are  bounded 
in  the  distance  by  other  walls.  Advancing,  one 


28  BARCELONA. 

comes  to  an  intersection,  and  from  that  point  sees 
other  streets  with  other  walls  at  the  end  and  other 
crossways.  It  is  like  being  in  Pompeii.  The  dead 
are  placed  in  the  walls  lengthwise,  disposed  in 
various  orders,  like  the  books  in  a  library.  For 
every  coffin  there  is  a  corresponding  niche,  in  which 
is  inscribed  the  name  of  the  dead.  Where  no  one 
has  been  interred  there  is  the  word  propriedad, 
which  indicates  that  the  position  has  been  engaged. 
Most  of  the  niches  are  enclosed  in  glass,  some  with 
iron  gratings,  others,  again,  with  very  fine  nettings 
of  woven  iron.  They  contain  a  great  variety  of 
offerings  placed  there  by  the  families  in  memory  of 
their  dead;  as,  for  instance,  photographs,  little 
altars,  pictures,  embroidery,  artificial  flowers,  and 
the  little  nothings  that  were  dear  to  them  in  life ; 
ribbons,  necklaces,  toys  of  children,  books, 
brooches,  miniatures — a  thousand  things  which 
recall  the  home  and  the  family,  and  indicate  the 
profession  of  those  to  whom  they  belonged ;  and  it 
is  impossible  to  look  upon  them  without  compassion. 
Here  and  there  one  sees  a  niche  open  and  black 
within,  a  sign  that  a  casket  will  be  placed  there  dur- 
ing the  day.  The  family  of  the  dead  are  obliged  to 
pay  an  annual  sum  for  the  space ;  when  they  fail  to 
pay  the  casket  is  taken  from  the  place  where  it  lies 
and  is  borne  to  the  common  trench  of  the  burial- 
place  of  the  poor,  which  is  reached  by  one  of  the 
streets.  There  was  an  interment  while  I  was  there. 


BARCELONA.  29 

From  a  distance  I  saw  them  place  the  ladder  and 
raise  the  casket,  and  I  passed  on.  One  night  a 
madman  hid  himself  in  one  of  the  empty  holes :  a 
watchman  passed  with  a  lantern  ;  the  madman  gave 
a  terrible  cry,  and  the  poor  watchman  fell  to  the 
ground  as  though  he  had  been  struck  by  lightning, 
and  it  is  said  he  never  recovered  from  the  shock. 
In  one  niche  I  saw  a  beautiful  tress  of  golden  hair, 
the  hair  of  a  girl  who  had  been  drowned  in  her 
fifteenth  year,  and  to  it  was  fastened  a  card  bearing 
the  word  Querida  (Beloved).  At  every  step  one 
sees  something  which  affects  the  mind  and  the  heart. 
All  those  offerings  have  the  effect  of  a  confused 
murmur,  a  blending  of  the  voices  of  mothers,  hus- 
bands, children,  and  aged  men,  who  whisper  as  one 
passes,  "  Look  !  I  am  here  !  "  At  every  crossway 
rise  statues,  mausoleums,  shafts  bearing  inscriptions 
in  honor  of  the  citizens  of  Barcelona  who  per- 
formed deeds  of  charity  during  the  scourge  of  yellow 
fever  in  1821  and  1870.  This  part  of  the  cemetery, 
planned,  as  has  been  said,  like  a  city,  belongs  to  the 
middle  class  of  the  people,  and  is  bounded  by  two 
vast  enclosures — the  one  for  the  poor,  bare  and 
dotted  with  great  black  crosses ;  the  other,  of  an 
equal  size,  for  the  rich,  cultivated  like  a  garden, 
surrounded  by  chapels  various,  rich,  and  mag- 
nificent. 

In  the  midst  of  a  forest  of  weeping  willows  and 
cypresses  tower  columns,  obelisks,  and  grand  tombs 


30  BARCELONA. 

on  every  side ;  marble  chapels  richly  adorned  with 
sculpture,  surmounted  by  bold  statues  of  archangels 
raising  their  arms  toward  heaven  ;  pyramids,  groups 
of  statues,  monuments  as  large  as  houses,  overtop- 
ping the  highest  trees  ;  and  between  the  monuments 
grass-plots,  railings,  and  flower-beds. 

At  the  entrance,  between  this  and  the  other  ceme- 
tery, stands  a  stupendous  marble  church,  surrounded 
by  pillars  and  partly  hidden  by  trees — a  sight  which 
amply  prepares  the  mind  for  the  magnificent  spec- 
tacle of  the  interior.  On  leaving  this  garden  one 
again  passes  through  the  lonely  streets  of  this  city 
of  the  dead,  which  seems  even  more  silent  and  sad 
than  when  one  first  entered  it.  On  recrossing  the 
threshold  one  turns  with  pleasure  to  the  many-colored 
houses  of  the  suburbs  of  Barcelona  as  they  lie  scat- 
tered over  the  plain,  like  the  advance-guard  sent  to 
announce  that  a  populous  city  is  expanding  and 
advancing. 

From  the  cemetery  to  the  cafe"  is  a  great  leap,  but 
in  travelling  one  makes  even  greater  ones.  The  cafe's 
of  Barcelona,  like  nearly  all  the  cafes  in  Spain,  con- 
sists of  one  vast  saloon,  adorned  with  large  mirrors, 
and  with  as  many  tables  as  it  is  possible  to  crowd 
into  the  space.  The  tables  seldom  remain  vacant, 
even  for  half  an  hour,  throughout  the  entire  day. 
In  the  evening  they  are  all  full  to  overflowing,  so 
that  one  is  many  times  obliged  to  wait  a  good  while 
even  to  find  a  seat  by  the  door.  Around  every  table 


BARCELONA.  31 

is  a  group  of  five  or  six  caballcros  wearing  over  their 
shoulders  the  capa,  a  mantle  of  dark  cloth,  provided 
with  a  generous  palmer's  hood  and  worn  instead  cf 
our  capeless  cloak.  In  every  group  they  are  playing 
dominoes.  This  is  the  most  popular  game  among  the 
Spaniards.  In  the  cafe's  from  twilight  to  midnight 
one  hears  a  loud,  continuous,  discordant  sound,  like 
the  rattling  of  hailstones,  from  the  turning  and  re- 
turning of  thousands  of  dominoes  by  hundreds  of 
hands,  so  that  one  is  obliged  to  raise  one's  voice  to 
be  heard  by  one's  next  neighbor.  The  commonest 
beverage  is  the  exquisite  chocolate  of  Spain,  which 
is  generally  served  in  little  cups,  and  is  about  as 
thick  as  preserved  juniper-berries  and  hot  enough  to 
scald  one's  throat.  One  of  these  cups,  with  a  drop 
of  milk  and  a  peculiar  cake  of  very  delicate  flavor 
which  they  call  boflo,  makes  a  luncheon  fit  for  Lucul- 
lus.  Between  one  bollo  and  the  next  I  made  my 
studies  of  the  Catalan  character,  conversing  with  all 
the  Don  Fulanos  (a  name  as  common  in  Spain  as 
Tizio  is  with  us)  who  had  the  good  grace  not  to  sus- 
pect me  of  being  a  spy  despatched  from  Madrid  to 
sniff  the  air  of  Catalonia. 

Their  minds  were  greatly  stirred  by  politics  in 
those  days,  and  it  often  happened  that  as  I  was  very 
innocently  speaking  of  a  newspaper  article,  a  prominent 
man,  or  of  anything  whatsoever,  whether  at  the  cafe* 
or  in  a  shop  or  at  the  theatre,  it  happened,  I  say, 
that  I  felt  the  touch  of  a  toe  and  heard  a  whisper  a* 


32  BARCELONA. 

my  ear,  "  Take  care !  That  gentleman  on  your 
right  is  a  Carlist." — "  Hush  !  This  man  is  a  Repub- 
lican."— "  That  one  over  there,  a  Sagastino." — "  The 
man  beside  you  is  a  Radical." — "  Yonder  is  a  Cim- 
brian." 

Everybody  was  talking  politics.  I  encountered  a 
rabid  Carlist  in  the  person  of  a  barber,  who,  learning 
by  my  pronunciation  that  I  was  a  compatriot  of  the 
king,  tried  his  best  to  drag  me  into  a  discussion.  I 
did  not  say  a  word,  for  he  was  shaving  me,  and  the 
resentment  of  my  wounded  patriotism  might  have  led 
to  the  drawing  of  the  first  blood  in  the  civil  war. 
But  the  barber  persisted,  and,  as  he  did  not  know 
how  else  to  come  to  the  point,  he  finally  said  in  suave 
tones, 

"  You  understand,  cdballerOj  if  a  war  were  to  break 
out  between  Italy  and  Spain,  Spain  would  not  be 
afraid." 

"  I  am  fully  persuaded  of  the  fact,"  I  replied, 
with  my  eye  on  the  razor. 

He  then  assured  me  that  France  would  declare 
war  against  Italy  as  soon  as  she  had  paid  Germany 
off:  "  There  is  no  escape." 

I  did  not  reply.  He  stood  a  moment  in  thought, 
and  then  said  maliciously, 

"  There  will  be  great  doings  in  a  little  while." 

Nevertheless,  it  gratified  the  Barcelonians  that  the 
king  made  his  appearance  among  them  with  an  air 
of  confidence  and  tranquillity,  and  the  mass  of  the 


BARCELONA.  33 

people  recall  his  entrance  into  the  city  with  admi- 
ration. 

I  found  sympathizers  with  the  king  even  among 
some  who  hissed  through  their  closed  teeth,  "  He  is 
not  a  Spaniard,"  or,  as  one  of  them  put  it,  "  How 
would  they  like  a  Castilian  king  at  Rome  or  Paris  ?" 
A  question  to  which  one  replies,  "  I  don't  know  much 
about  politics,"  and  the  conversation  is  ended. 

But  the  Carlists  are  the  truly  implacable  party. 
They  say  scurrilous  things  about  our  revolution  in 
the  best  of  good  faith,  the  greater  part  of  them 
being  convinced  that  the  Pope  is  the  true  king  of 
Italy — that  Italy  wants  him,  and  has  submitted  to 
the  sword  of  Victor  Emanuel  because  she  could  not 
do  otherwise,  but  that  she  is  only  watching  for  a 
proper  occasion  to  strike  for  liberty,  as  the  Bourbons 
and  others  have  done. 

And  I  am  able  to  offer  in  evidence  of  this  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote,  which  I  repeat  as  I  heard  it  nar- 
rated, without  the  least  shadow  of  an  intention  to 
wound  the  person  who  played  the  principal  part  of 
it :  Upon  one  occasion  a  young  Italian,  whom  I 
know  intimately,  was  presented  to  one  of  the  most 
talented  women  of  the  city,  who  received  him  with 
marked  courtesy.  A  number  of  Italians  were  pres- 
ent during  the  conversation.  The  lady  spoke  very 
sympathetically  of  Italy,  thanked  the  young  man  for 
the  enthusiasm  which  he  had  expressed  for  Spain, 
sustained,  in  a  word,  an  animated  and  pleasing  con- 
VOL.  I.— 3 


34  BARCELONA. 

versation  with  her  responsive  guest  almost  all  of  the 
evening.  Suddenly  she  asked  : 

"  In  which  city  will  you  reside  upon  your  return 
to  Italy?" 

"  In  Rome,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  To  defend  the  Pope  ? "  asked  the  lady  with 
perfect  sincerity. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  and  answered  with 
an  ingenuous  smile, 

"No,  indeed!" 

That  no  provoked  a  tempest.  The  lady,  forget- 
ting that  the  young  man  was  an  Italian  and  her 
guest,  broke  out  into  such  a  fury  of  invective 
against  King  Victor,  the  Piedmontese  government, 
and  Italy  from  the  time  the  army  entered  Rome  to 
the  War  of  the  Marches  and  Umbria  that  the  ill- 
fated  stranger  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet  with  her 
scolding.  But  he  controlled  himself  and  did  not  say 
a  word,  allowing  the  other  Italians,  who  were  friends 
of  long  standing,  to  defend  the  honor  of  their 
country.  The  discussion  was  continued  to  some 
length,  and  finally  brought  to  a  close.  The  lady 
found  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  too 
far,  and  showed  that  she  regretted  her  action ;  but 
it  was  very  evident  from  her  words  that  she,  and 
doubtless  a  great  many  others,  were  convinced  that 
the  unification  of  Italy  had  been  accomplished  against 
the  will  of  the  Italian  people  by  Piedmont,  the  king, 
the  greed  of  power,  and  the  hatred  of  religion. 


BARCELONA.  35 

The  common  people,  however,  are  republican, 
and,  as  they  have  the  reputation  of  being  quicker 
of  action  than  those  who  talk  more,  they  are  feared. 

In  Spain,  whenever  they  wish  to  circulate  a  report 
of  an  approaching  revolution,  they  always  begin  by 
saying  that  it  will  break  out  in  Barcelona,  or  that  it 
is  on  the  point  of  breaking  out,  or  has  broken  out. 

The  Catalans  do  not  wish  to  be  thought  of  as  on 
a  common  footing  with  the  Spaniards  of  the  other 
provinces.  "  We  are  Spaniards,"  they  say,  "  but, 
be  it  understood,  of  Catalonia — a  people,  to  be  brief, 
that  labor  and  think ;  a  people  to  whose  ears  the 
din  of  machinery  is  more  pleasant  than  the 'music 
of  the  guitar.  We  do  not  envy  Andalusia  her 
romance,  the  praises  of  her  poets,  nor  the  paintings 
of  her  artists ;  we  are  content  to  be  the  most  serious 
and  industrious  people  of  Spain."  In  fact,  they 
speak  of  their  brothers  of  the  South  as  at  one  time, 
though  seldom  now,  the  Piedmontese  used  to  speak 
of  the  Neapolitans  and  the  Tuscans :  (l  Yes,  they 
have  genius,  imagination,  sweet  speech,  and  amuse- 
ment; but  we,  on  the  contrary,  have  greater  force 
of  will,  greater  aptitude  for  science,  better  popular 
education,  .  .  .  and  moreover,  .  .  .  character.  .  .  ." 
I  met  a  Catalonian,  a  gentleman  distinguished  for  his 
ability  and  learning,  who  lamented  that  the  War 
of  Independence  had  too  closely  affiliated  the  differ- 
ent provinces  of  Spain,  whence  it  resulted  that  the 
Catalonian  s  had  contracted  some  of  the  bad  habits 


36  BAKCELONA. 

of  the  Southerners,  while  the  latter  had  acquired 
none  of  the  good  qualities  of  the  Catalans.  "  We 
have  become  mas  ligeros  de  casco"  (lighter  of  head), 
he  said,  and  he  would  not  be  comforted. 

A  merchant  of  whom  I  asked  what  he  thought  of 
the  Castilian  character  answered  brusquely  that  in 
his  opinion  it  would  be  a  fortunate  thing  for  Cata- 
lonia if  there  were  no  railroad  between  Barcelona 
and  Madrid,  because  commerce  with  that  race 
corrupted  the  character  and  the  customs  of  the 
Catalan  people.  When  they  speak  of  a  long-winded 
deputy,  they  say,  "  Oh  yes,  he  is  an  Andalusian." 

They  ridicule  the  poetic  language  of  the  Anda- 
lusians,  their  soft  pronunciation,  their  childish 
gaiety,  their  vanity  and  effeminacy. 

The  Andalusians,  on  the  contrary,  speak  of  the 
Catalans  much  as  an  aesthetic  young  lady  of  literary 
and  artistic  tastes  would  speak  of  one  of  those 
domestic  girls  who  prefer  the  cook-book  to  the 
romances  of  George  Sand. 

"  They  are  a  rude  people,"  they  say,  "  who  have 
a  capacity  only  for  arithmetic  and  mechanics  j 
barbarians  who  would  convert  a  statue  of  Montaigne 
into  an  olive-press,  and  one  of  Murillo's  canvases 
into  a  tarpaulin — the  veritable  Bosotians  of  Spain, 
insupportable  with  their  jargon,  their  surliness,  and 
their  pedantic  gravity." 

In  reality,  Catalonia  is  probably  the  province  of 
Jeast  importance  in  the  history  of  the  fine  arts. 


Andalusian  Peasant  Girls. 


BARCELONA.  37 

The  only  poet  who  was  born  in  Barcelona — and  he 
was  not  great,  but  only  illustrious — was  Juan 
Boscan,  who  flourished  at  the  beginning  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  and  introduced  into  Spanish  letters 
the  hendecasyllabic  verse,  the  ballad,  the  sonnet, 
and  all  the  forms  of  Italian  lyric  poetry,  for  which 
he  had  a  passionate  admiration.  Whence  arose  this 
great  transformation,  as  it  afterward  became,  in  the 
entire  literature  of  a  people  ?  From  the  fact  that 
Boscan  took  up  his  residence  at  Granada  at  the  time 
when  the  court  of  Charles  V.  was  held  there,  and 
that  he  there  met  an  ambassador  from  the  republic 
of  Venice,  Andrea  Navagero,  who  knew  the  poems 
of  Petrarch  by  heart,  and  recited  them  to  Boscan, 
and  said  to  him,  "It  seems  to  me  that  you  too 
could  write  such  verses ;  try  it !" 

Boscan  tried :  all  the  literature  of  Spain  cried  out 
against  him.  Italian  poetry  was  not  sonorous; 
Petrarch's  poems  were  insipid  and  effeminate ;  and 
Spain  did  not  need  to  harness  her  Pegasus  in  the 
traces  of  any  other  land.  But  Boscan  was  unyield- 
ing. Garcilasso  de  la  Vega,  the  chivalrous  cavalier, 
his  friend — he  who  received  the  glorious  title  of 
Malherbe  of  Spain — followed  his  example.  The 
band  of  reformers  grew  little  by  little,  until  it  became 
an  army  and  conquered  and  dominated  all  literature. 
The  consummation  of  the  movement  was  reached  in 
Garcilasso,  but  to  Boscan  remains  the  merit  of 
giving  it  the  first  impulse,  and  hence  to  Barcelona 


38  BARCELONA. 

belongs  the  honor  of  having  given  to  Spain  the 
genius  who  transformed  her  literature. 

During  the  few  days  I  remained  at  Barcelona  I 
was  accustomed  to  spend  the  evening  in  company 
with  some  young  Catalans,  walking  on  the  sea-shore 
in  the  moonlight  until  late  at  night.  They  all  knew 
a  little  Italian,  and  were  very  fond  of  our  poetry,  so 
from  hour  to  hour  we  did  nothing  but  repeat  verses 
— they  from  Zorilla,  Espronceda,  and  Lope  de  Vega ; 
I  from  Foscolo,  Berchet,  and  Manzoni — alternating 
in  a  sort  of  rivalry  to  see  who  could  repeat  the  most 
beautiful  selection. 

It  is  a  novel  sensation,  that  of  repeating  the  verses 
of  one's  native  poets  in  a  foreign  country. 

When  I  saw  my  Spanish  friends  all  intent  on  the 
story  of  the  battle  of  Maclodio,  and  then  little  by 
little  becoming  excited,  and  finally  so  inflamed  that 
they  grasped  me  by  the  arm  and  exclaimed,  with  a 
Castilian  accent  which  rendered  their  words  doubly 
grateful,  "  Beautiful !  sublime !"  then  I  felt  my 
blood  surge  through  my  veins ;  I  trembled,  and  if  it 
had  been  light  I  believe  they  would  have  seen  me 
turn  as  white  as  a  sheet.  They  repeated  to  me 
verses  in  the  Catalan  language.  I  use  the  word 
"  language  "  because  it  has  a  history  and  a  literature 
of  its  own,  and  was  not  relegated  to  the  condition  of 
a  dialect  until  the  political  predominance  was  as- 
sumed by  Castile,  who  imposed  her  idiom  as  authori- 
tative upon  the  rest  of  the  provinces.  And  although 


BARCELONA.  39 

it  is  a  harsh  language,  made  up  of  short  words,  and 
unpleasant  at  first  even  to  one  who  has  not  a  delicate 
ear,  it  has  none  the  less  some  conspicuous  advan- 
tages, and  of  these  the  popular  poets  have  availed 
themselves  with  admirable  skill,  particularly  in  ex- 
pressing the  sense  by  the  sound.  A  poem  which 
they  recited,  the  first  lines  of  which  imitated  the 
rumbling  of  a  railway-train,  drew  from  me  an  excla- 
mation of  wonder.  But,  even  though  one  may  know 
the  Spanish  language,  Catalan  is  not  intelligible 
without  explanation.  The  people  talk  rapidly,  with 
closed  teeth,  without  supplementing  their  speech  by 
gestures,  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  get  the  sense  of  the 
simplest  sentence,  and  it  is  a  great  thing  to  catch  a 
few  occasional  words.  However,  the  common  people 
can  speak  Castilian  when  it  is  convenient,  but  they 
do  so  utterly  without  grace,  although  much  better 
than  the  common  people  of  the  northern  Italian  prov- 
inces speak  Italian.  Even  the  cultivated  classes  of 
Catalonia  are  not  proficient  in  the  national  speech. 

The  Castilian  first  recognizes  the  Catalan  by  his 
pronunciation,  to  say  nothing  of  his  voice,  but  par- 
ticularly by  his  uncouth  expressions.  Hence  a  for- 
eigner who  comes  to  Spain  with  an  illusion  that  he 
can  speak  the  language  may  easily  be  able  to  cher- 
ish the  illusion  so  long  as  he  remains  in  Catalonia, 
but  as  soon  as  he  enters  Castile  and  hears  for  the 
first  time  that  crossfire  of  epigrams,  that  profusion 
of  proverbs,  the  apt  expressions,  the  clear  and  happy 


40  BARCELONA. 

idioms,  he  stands  aghast  like  Alfieri  in  the  presence 
of  Dame  Vocabulary  when  they  were  discussing 
hosiery;  and  then  farewell  illusion! 

On  my  last  night  I  visited  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 
which  is  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  Europe,  and 
probably  the  largest.  It  was  crowded  with  people 
from  the  pit  to  the  highest  gallery,  and  could  not 
have  accommodated  a  hundred  more  persons.  From 
the  box  in  which  I  sat  the  ladies  on  the  opposite  side 
looked  no  larger  than  children,  and  on  half  closing 
one's  eyes  they  appeared  like  so  many  white  lines, 
one  for  each  row  of  boxes,  tremulous  and  sparkling 
like  an  immense  garland  of  camellias  impearled  with 
dew  and  swayed  by  the  breeze. 

The  vast  boxes  are  divided  by  partitions  which 
slope  down  from  the  wall  to  the  front  of  the  box,  so 
enabling  one  to  have  a  good  view  of  the  persons 
seated  on  the  front  row ;  consequently,  the  theatre 
looks  like  a  great  gallery,  and  so  acquires  an  air  of 
lightness  which  makes  it  very  beautiful  to  look  upon. 
All  is  in  relief;  all  is  open  to  the  view;  the  light 
strikes  every  part ;  every  one  sees  every  one  else ; 
the  aisles  are  wide,  and  one  may  come  and  go,  turn 
with  ease  in  any  direction,  look  at  a  lady  from  a 
thousand  points  of  view,  pass  from  the  gallery  to 
the  boxes  and  from  the  boxes  to  the  gallery, — one 
may  walk  about,  talk,  and  wander  here  and  there  all 
the  evening  without  striking  elbows  with  a  living 
soul.  The  other  parts  of  the  building  are  in  pro- 


BARCELONA.  41 

portion  to  the  principal  room — corridors,  staircases, 
lobbies,  vestibules  like  those  of  a  great  palace. 
Then  there  is  an  immense,  splendid  ball-room  in 
which  one  could  place  another  theatre.  Yet  even  here, 
where  the  good  Barcelonians,  after  the  fatigue  of  the 
day,  should  think  of  nothing  but  recreation  or  the 
contemplation  of  their  beautiful,  superb  women, — 
even  here  the  good  Barcelonians  buy  and  sell,  bargain 
and  chaffer,  like  souls  condemned  to  torment. 

In  this  corridor  there  is  a  continual  passing  of 
bank-runners,  office-clerks,  and  messenger-boys,  and 
the  constant  hum  of  the  market-place.  Barbarians ! 
How  many  beautiful  faces,  how  many  noble  eyes, 
how  many  splendid  heads  of  dark  hair  in  that  crowd 
of  ladies !  In  ancient  times  the  young  Catalan 
lovers,  to  win  the  heart  of  their  ladies,  bound  them- 
selves to  fraternities  of  flagellants  and  beat  them- 
selves with  whips  of  iron  beneath  the  windows  of 
their  loves  until  the  blood  burst  from  the  skin ;  and 
the  ladies  cheered  them  on,  crying,  "  Lash  thyself 
still  harder,  so  ;  now  I  love  thee,  I  am  thine  !"  How 
many  times  did  I  exclaim  that  night,  "  Gentlemen, 
for  pity's  sake  give  me  a  whip  of  iron !" 

The  next  morning  before  sunrise  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Saragossa,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  not  without  a 
feeling  of  sadness  at  leaving  Barcelona,  although  I 
had  been  there  only  a  few  days.  This  city,  although 
it  is  anything  but  the  flower  of  the  beautiful  cities 
of  the  world,  as  Cervantes  called  it, — this  city  of 


42  BARCELONA. 

commerce  and  warehouses,  spurned  by  poets  and 
artists — pleased  me,  and  its  hurried,  busy  people 
inspired  me  with  respect.  And  then  it  is  always 
sad  to  depart  from  a  city,  however  unfamiliar,  with 
the  certainty  of  never  seeing  it  again.  It  is  like  say- 
ing good-bye  for  ever  to  a  travelling  companion  with 
whom  one  has  passed  twenty -four  happy  hours  :  he 
is  not  a  friend,  but  one  seems  to  love  him  as  a  friend, 
and  will  remember  him  all  one's  life  with  a  feeling  of 
affection  more  real  than  that  one  holds  toward  many 
who  are  called  by  the  name  of  friends. 

As  I  turned  to  look  once  again  at  the  city  from  the 
window' of  the  railway-carriage,  the  words  of  Alvaro 
Tarfe  in  Don  Quixote  came  to  my  lips :  "  Adieu, 
Barcelona,  the  home  of  courtesy,  the  haven  of  wan- 
derers, the  fatherland  of  the  brave !  Adieu !" 
And  I  continued  sadly :  "  Lo,  the  first  leaf  is  torn 
from  the  rosy  book  of  travel !  So  all  things  pass. 
Another  city,  then  another,  then  another,  and  then — 
I  shall  return,  and  the  journey  will  seem  like  a 
dream,  and  it  will  seem  as  though  I  had  not  even 
stirred  from  home ;  and  then  another  journey — new 
cities  and  other  sad  partings,  and  again  a  memory 
vague  as  a  dream  ;  and  then  f "  Alas  for  that  travel- 
ler who  harbors  thoughts  like  these  !  Look  at  the 
sky  and  at  the  fields,  repeat  poetry,  and — smoke. 
j  Barcelona,  archivio  de  la  cortesia  ! 


SARAGOSSA. 


SARAGOSSA. 


A  FEW  miles  from  Barcelona  one  comes  in  sight 
of  the  serrated  crags  of  the  famous  Montserrat,  a 
peculiar  mountain  which  at  first  sight  raises  a  sus- 
picion of  an  optical  illusion,  so  hard  is  i:  to  believe 
that  Nature  could  ever  have  yielded  to  so  strange  a 
caprice.  Imagine  a  succession  of  little  triangles  con- 
nected with  each  other,  like  those  which  children  use 
to  represent  a  chain  of  mountains,  or  a  crown  with  a 
pointed  circlet,  stretched  out  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw 
or  a  great  many  sugar-loaves  ranged  in  a  row,  and 
you  have  an  idea  of  the  distant  appearance  of  Mont- 
serrat. It  is  a  group  of  immense  cones  which  rise 
side  by  side  one  behind  another,  or  rather  one  great 
mountain  formed  of  a  hundred  mountains,  cleft  from 
the  summit  to  a  distance  almost  one-third  of  its 
height  in  such  a  manner  that  it  presents  two  grand 
peaks,  around  which  cluster  the  lesser  ones.  The 
highest  altitudes  arid  and  inaccessible ;  the  lower 
slopes  mantled  with  pine,  oak,  arbutus,  and  juniper, 
broken  here  and  there  by  measureless  caverns  and 
fearful  precipices,  and  dotted  by  white  hermitages, 
which  stand  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  aerial  crags 

45 


46  SABAGOSSA. 

and  the  deep  gorges.  In  the  cleft  of  the  mountain, 
between  the  two  principal  peaks,  rises  the  ancient 
monastery  of  the  Benedictines,  where  Ignatius  Loyola 
meditated  in  his  youth.  Fifty  thousand  pilgrims  and 
sight-seers  annually  visit  the  monastery  and  the 
caves,  and  on  the  eighth  of  September  a  festival  is 
held  which  brings  together  an  innumerable  throng 
from  every  part  of  Catalonia. 

Shortly  before  we  arrived  at  the  station  where 
one  gets  off  of  the  train  to  ascend  the  mountain,  a 
group  of  school-boys  from  an  academy  of  some  un- 
known village  rushed  into  the  railway-carriage. 
They  were  making  an  excursion  to  the  monastery 
of  Montserrat,  and  a  priest  accompanied  them.  They 
were  Catalans — with  fair,  ruddy  faces  and  large  eyes  j 
each  one  carried  a  basket  containing  bread  and  fruit : 
one  had  a  scrap-book,  another  a  field-glass.  They 
all  laughed  and  talked  at  once,  rollicked  about  on  the 
seats,  and  filled  the  car  with  infinite  merriment.  But, 
although  I  strained  my  ears  and  racked  my  brain,  I 
could  not  understand  a  word  of  the  miserable  jargon 
in  which  they  were  chattering.  I  entered  into  con- 
versation with  the  priest. 

"  Look,  sir,"  said  he  after  the  preliminary  sen- 
tences, as  he  pointed  out  one  of  the  boys  :  "he  knows 
all  the  Odes  of  Horace  by  heart ;  the  way  in  which 
that  other  boy  can  solve  problems  in  arithmetic  would 
astonish  you  ;  this  one  here  is  a  born  philosopher ;" 
and  so  he  described  to  me  the  gifts  of  each. 


SARAGOSSA.  47 

Suddenly  he  interrupted  himself  to  shout  "  Bere- 
tina  /"  (Caps).  The  boys  all  drew  their  red  Cata- 
lonian  caps  from  their  pockets,  and  with  cries  of  de- 
light proceeded  to  put  them  on,  some  slipping  them 
back  so  that  they  fell  over  their  necks,  the  others 
pulling  them  forward  until  they  dangled  in  front  of 
their  noses.  The  priest  made  a  gesture  of  disap- 
proval, and  at  once  those  who  had  their  caps  pushed 
back  pulled  them  over  their  noses,  and  those  who 
had  them  pulled  forward  pushed  them  back  over 
their  necks,  with  laughter  and  shouts  and  clapping 
of  the  hands. 

I  approached  one  of  the  most  roguish  of  the  boys, 
and,  merely  for  the  fun  of  it,  knowing  that  I  might 
as  well  have  talked  to  a  wall,  I  asked  in  Italian, 
"  Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  made  the  journey 
to  Montserrat  ?" 

The  boy  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered 
very  slowly,  "I — have — been — there — before — at 
— other — times." 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  boy  ! "  I  cried  with  a  feeling  of 
satisfaction  hard  to  imagine,  "  and  where  have  you 
learned  Italian  ?v 

The  priest  here  put  in  a  word  to  say  that  the 
boy's  father  had  lived  several  years  at  Naples. 
Just  as  I  was  turning  toward  my  little  Catalan  to 
continue  the  conversation  my  words  were  cut  short 
by  a  miserable  whistle,  and  then  the  wretched  cry 
of  "  Olesa  /"  the  village  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 


48  SARAGOSSA. 

The  priest  bade  me  good-bye,  the  boys  tumbled  out 
of  the  car,  the  train  was  off  again. 

I  put  my  head  out  of  the  window  and  shouted 
to  my  little  friend,  "  Buona  passeggiata  !  "  (A 
pleasant  walk),  and  he  shouted  back,  emphasizing 
each  syllable,  "A-di-o!"  Some  may  laugh  at  the 
thought  of  mentioning  these  trifles ;  nevertheless, 
they  are  the  liveliest  pleasures  of  the  traveller's 
experience. 

The  towns  and  villages  which  one  sees  in  crossing 
Catalonia  toward  Arragon  are  almost  all  populous 
and  flourishing,  surrounded  by  workshops,  factories, 
and  buildings  in  course  of  construction,  from  which 
in  every  direction  one  sees  thick  columns  of  smoke 
rising  here  and  there  among  the  trees,  and  at  every 
station  there  is  great  running  hither  and  thither  of 
peasants  and  merchants.  The  country  is  a  pleasing 
succession  of  cultivated  fields,  gentle  hills,  and 
picturesque  valleys  until  one  comes  to  the  village  of 
Cervera. 

Here  one  begins  to  see  great  stretches  of  arid 
land  with  a  few  scattered  houses,  which  announce 
the  proximity  of  Arragon.  But  then,  unexpectedly, 
one  enters  a  smiling  valley  clothed  with  olive- 
groves,  vineyards,  mulberry  trees,  orchards,  and 
dotted  with  towns  and  villas.  One  sees  on  the  one 
side  the  lofty  summits  of  the  Pyrenees,  on  the  other 
the  mountains  of  Arragon — Lerida,  the  glorious  city 
of  ten  sieges,  along  the  bank  of  the  Segre,  on  the 


SARAGOSSA.  49 

slope  of  a  beautiful  hill  j  and  all  about  a  luxuriance 
of  vegetation,  a  variety  of  scenery — a  glorious  feast 
to  the  eye.  It  is  the  last  view  of  Catalonia ;  in  a 
few  minutes  one  enters  Arragon. 

Arragon !  What  vague  memories  of  wars,  of 
bandits,  queens,  poets,  heroes,  and  storied  lovers 
dwell  in  the  echo  of  that  sonorous  name !  And 
what  a  profound  feeling  of  sympathy  and  respect ! 
The  old,  noble,  haughty  Arragon,  from  whose  brow 
flash  the  splendid  rays  of  the  glory  of  Spain !  upon 
whose  ancestral  shields  is  written  in  characters  of 
blood,  "  Liberty  and  valor !  "  When  the  world  bent 
beneath  the  yoke  of  the  tyrants  the  people  of 
Arragon  said  to  their  king,  through  the  mouth  of 
their  chief-justice,  "We,  who  are  as  great  as  thou, 
and  more  potent,  have  chosen  thee  for  our  lord  and 
king  on  thy  agreement  to  obey  our  commands  and 
conserve  our  liberties ;  and  not  otherwise." 

And  the  king  knelt  before  the  might  of  the 
magistrate  of  the  people  and  took  his  oath  on  this 
sacred  formula. 

In  the  midst  of  the  barbarity  of  the  Middle  Ages 
the  fiery  race  of  Arragon  recked  not  of  torture ;  the 
secret  trial  was  banished  from  their  code ;  all  their 
institutions  protected  the  liberty  of  the  citizen  and 
law  held  absolute  sway.  Discontented  with  their 
narrow  mountain-home,  they  descended  from  So- 
brarbe  to  Huesca,  from  Huesca  to  Saragossa,  and  as 
conquerors  entered  the  Mediterranean.  Joining 

VOL.  I.— 4 


50  SARAGOSSA. 

with  brave  Catalonia,  they  redeemed  the  Balearic 
Isles  and  Valencia  from  Moorish  dominion ;  fought 
Murat  for  their  outraged  rights  and  violated  con- 
sciences; tamed  the  adventurers  of  the  house  of 
Anjou  and  spoiled  them  of  their  Italian  lands ;  broke 
the  chains  of  the  port  of  Marseilles,  which  still  hang 
on  the  walls  of  their  temples ;  with  the  ships  of 
Roger  di  Lauria  ruled  the  seas  from  the  Gulf  of 
Taranto  to  the  mouth  of  the  Guadalquivir ;  subdued 
the  Bosphorus  with  the  ships  of  Roger  de  Flor; 
swept  the  Mediterranean  from  Rosas  to  Catania  on 
the  wings  of  victory  ;  and,  as  though  the  West  was- 
too  narrow  for  their  ambition,  they  dared  to  carve 
upon  the  brow  of  Olympus,  the  stones  of  the  Piraeus, 
and  the  proud  mountains  .which  form  the  gates  of 
Asia  the  immortal  name  of  their  fatherland. 

These  were  my  thoughts  on  entering  Arragon, 
although.  I  did  not  express  them  in  these  very  words, 
for  I  did  not  then  have  before  me  a  certain  little 
book  by  Emilio  Castelar.  The  first  sight  upon 
which  my  eyes  rested  was  the  little  village  of 
Monzon  lying  along  the  stream  of  Cinca,  noted  for 
the  famous  assemblies  of  the  courts  and  for  the 
alternate  attacks  and  defences  of  Spanish  and 
French — the  common  fate  of  almost  all  the  villages 
of  the  province  during  the  War  of  Independence. 
Monzon  lies  outstretched  at  the  foot  of  a  formidable 
mountain  upon  whose  side  rises  a  castle  as  black, 
sinister,  and  appalling  as  the  grimmest  of  the  feudal 


SARAGOSSA.  51 

lords  could  have  planned  to  condemn  the  most 
detested  of  villages  to  a  life  of  fear.  Even  the 
guide  pauses  before  this  monstrous  edifice  and 
breaks  forth  in  a  timid  exclamation  of  astonishment. 
There  is  not,  I  believe,  in  Spain  another  village, 
another  mountain,  another  castle  which  better 
represents  the  fearful  submission  of  an  oppressed 
people  and  the  perpetual  menace  of  a  cruel  ruler. 
A  giant  pressing  his  knee  on  the  breast  of  a  mere 
child  whom  he  has  thrown  to  the  ground, — this  is 
but  a  poor  simile  to  give  an  idea  of  it ;  and  such 
was  the  impression  it  made  upon  me  that,  although 
I  do  not  know  how  to  hold  the  pencil  in  my  hand,  I 
tried  to  sketch  the  landscape  as  best  I  could,  so  that 
it  might  not  fade  from  my  memory.  And  while  I 
was  making  scratches  I  composed  the  first  stanza  of 
a  gloomy  ballad. 

After  Monzon  the  country  of  Arragon  is  merely  a 
vast  plain,  bounded  in  the  distance  by  long  chains  of 
reddish  hills,  with  a  few  wretched  villages,  and  some 
solitary  eminences  upon  which  rise  the  blackened 
ruins  of  ancient  castles.  Arragon,  so  flourishing 
under  her  kings,  is  now  one  of  the  poorest  provinces 
of  Spain.  Only  on  the  banks  of  the  Ebro  and  along 
the  famous  canal  which  extends  for  forty  miles  from 
Tudela  as  far  as  Saragossa,  serving  at  the  same  time 
to  irrigate  the  fields  and  to  transport  merchandise, — 
only  here  does  commerce  thrive.  Elsewhere  it  lan- 
guishes or  is  dead. 


52  SARAGOSSA. 

The  railway-stations  are  deserted ;  when  the  train 
stops  one  hears  no  other  sound  save  the  voice  of 
some  old  troubadour  who  strums  his  guitar  and 
chants  a  monotonous  ditty,  which  one  hears  again  at 
all  the  other  stations,  and  afterward  in  the  cities  of 
Arragon :  the  words  varied,  but  eternally  the  same 
tune.  As  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  out  of  the 
window,  I  turned  to  my  travelling  companions. 

The  car  was  well  filled  :  we  were  about  forty  in 
number,  counting  men  and  women,  and  as  the  second- 
class  carriages  in  Spain  do  not  have  compartments, 
we  could  all  see  each  other — priests,  nuns,  boys, 
servants,  and  other  persons  who  might  have  been 
business-men  or  officials  or  secret  emmisaries  of  Don 
Carlos.  The  priests  smoked  their  cigarettes,  as  the 
custom  is  in  Spain,  amicably  offering  their  tobacco- 
pouches  and  rolling  paper  to  those  beside  them.  The 
others  ate  with  all  their  might,  passing  from  one  to 
another  a  sort  of  bladder,  which  when  pressed 
with  both  hands  sent  out  a  spurt  of  wine.  Others 
were  reading  the  newspaper,  wrinkling  their  brows 
now  and  then  with  an  air  of  profound  medita- 
tion. 

A  Spaniard  will  not  put  a  piece  of  orange,  a  bit  of 
cheese,  or  a  mouthful  of  bread  into  his  mouth  in  the 
presence  of  others  before  he  has  asked  every  one  to 
eat  with  him  ;  and  so  I  saw  fruit,  bread  sardines,  and 
cups  of  wine  pass  under  my  nose,  everything  accom- 
panied with  a  polite  "  Gusta  usted  comer,  commigo  ?" 


SAEAGOSSA.  53 

(Will  you  eat  with  me,  sir  ?)  To  which  I  re- 
plied, u  Grracias"  (No,  thank  you),  though  it  went 
against  the  grain  to  do  so,  for  I  was  as  hungry  as 
Ugolino.  Opposite  to  me,  with  her  feet  almost  touch- 
ing mine,  sat  a  young  nun,  if  one  were  to  judge  of 
her  age  by  her  chin,  which  was  all  of  her  face  visible 
below  her  veil,  and  by  her  hand,  which  lay  carelessly 
on  her  knee.  I  looked  at  her  closely  for  more  than 
an  hour,  hoping  that  she  would  raise  her  face,  but 
she  remained  motionless  as  a  statue,  although  from 
her  attitude  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  obliged 
to  resist  the  natural  curiosity  to  look  around  her; 
and  for  this  reason  she  finally  won  my  admiration. 
What  constancy  !  I  thought ;  what  strength  of  will ! 
What  a  power  of  sacrifice  even  in  these  trifling  mat- 
ters !  What  a  noble  contempt  for  human  vanity ! 
As  I  was  engaged  with  these  thoughts  I  happened  to 
glance  at  her  hand ;  it  was  a  small,  white  hand,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  to  be  moving.  I  watched  it  more 
intently,  and  saw  it  escape  very  slowly  out  of  the 
sleeve,  extend  the  fingers,  and  rest  on  the  knee,  so 
that  for  a  moment  it  hung  gracefully  down  ;  then  it 
turned  a  little  to  one  side,  was  drawn  back,  and 
again  extended.  Oh,  ye  gods !  anything  but  con- 
tempt of  human  vanity  ! 

I  could  not  have  been  mistaken ;  she  had  gone  to 
all  that  trouble  merely  to  display  her  little  hand,  yet 
she  did  not  once  raise  her  head  all  the  time  she  re- 
mained in  the  car,  nor  did  she  even  allow  her  face  to 


54  SARAGOSSA. 

be  seen  when  she  got  out.  Oh,  the  inscrutable  depths 
of  the  feminine  mind  ! 

It  was  ordained  that  I  should  make  no  other  friends 
than  priests  during  the  journey.  An  old  father  with 
a  benevolent  expression  spoke  to  me,  and  we  com- 
menced a  conversation  which  lasted  almost  to  Sara- 
gossa.  At  first,  when  I  said  I  was  an  Italian,  he  be- 
came a  little  suspicious,  thinking  perhaps  that  I  had 
been  one  of  those  who  had  broken  the  bolts  of  the  Qui- 
rinal,  but  when  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  busy  myself 
about  politics  he  was  reassured  and  talked  with  per- 
fect freedom.  We  chanced  upon  literature.  I  re- 
peated to  him  the  whole  of  Manzoni's  Pentecoste, 
which  delighted  him,  and  he  recited  for  me  a  poem 
of  the  celebrated  Luis  de  Leon,  a  sacred  poet  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  we  were  friends.  When  we 
came  to  Zuera,  the  last  station  before  arriving  at 
Saragossa,  he  arose,  bade  me  good-bye,  and  with  his 
foot  on  the  step  he  turned  quickly  and  whispered  in 
my  ear,  "  Beware  of  the  women ;  they  bring  evil 
consequences  in  Spain."  When  he  alighted  he  stood 
to  watch  the  train  start,  and,  raising  his  hand  with  a 
gesture  of  fatherly  admonition,  he  said  a  second 
time,  "  Beware !" 

It  was  late  at  night  when  I  reached  Saragossa,  and 
as  I  left  the  train  my  ear  suddenly  became  aware  of 
the  peculiar  cadence  with  which  the  hackmen,  the 
porters,  and  the  boys  were  speaking  as  they  quar- 
relled over  my  baggage.  In  Arragon  even  the  most 


SARAGOSSA.  55 

insignificant  people  can  speak  Castilian,  although  with 
some  mutilation  and  harshness ;  but  your  pure  Cas- 
tilian can  recognize  the  Arragonese  before  he  has 
spoken  half  a  word ;  and,  in  fact,  the  Andalusians 
can  imitate  their  accent,  and  do  so  occasionally  in 
derision  of  its  roughness  and  monotony,  as  the  Tus- 
cans used  sometimes  to  mock  the  speech  of  Lucca. 

I  entered  the  city  with  a  certain  feeling  of  rever- 
ent fear.  The  terrible  fame  of  Saragossa  oppressed 
me ;  my  conscience  almost  upbraided  me  for  having 
so  often  profaned  its  name  in  the  school  of  rhetoric, 
when  I  hurled  it  as  a  challenge  in  the  face  of  tyrants. 
The  streets  were  dark ;  I  saw  only  the  black  outline 
of  the  roofs  and  steeples  against  the  starlight  sky : 
I  heard  only  the  rumble  of  the  coaches  as  they  rolled 
away.  At  certain  turns  I  seemed  to  see  daggers  and 
gun-barrels  gleaming  at  the  windows  and  to  hear  far 
off  the  cries  of  the  wounded.  I  do  not  know  what  I 
should  have  given  if  I  could  have  hastened  the  day- 
break, and  so  have  gratified  that  eager  curiosity 
which  was  stirring  within  me  to  visit  one  by  one 
those  streets,  those  squares,  those  houses,  famous  for 
desperate  conflicts  and  horrible  slaughter,  painted  by 
so  many  artists,  sung  by  so  many  poets,  and  so  often 
in  my  dreams  before  I  departed  from  Italy,  that  I 
used  to  murmur  with  delight,  "  I  shall  one  day  see 
them."  Arrived  finally  at  my  hotel,  I  looked  at  the 
porter  who  conducted  me  to  my  room  with  an 
amiable  smile,  as  though  I  would  have  said,  "  Spare 


56  SARAGOSSA. 

me  !  I  am  not  an  invader  !"  And  with  a  glance  at  a 
large  painting  of  Amadeus  hanging  at  an  angle  of 
the  corridor — a  great  reassurance  to  Italian  travellers 
— I  went  to  bed  as  sleepy  as  any  of  my  readers. 

At  daybreak  I  hurried  from  the  hotel.  Neither 
shops,  doors,  nor  windows  were  yet  open,  but  hardly 
had  I  taken  a  step  in  the  street  before  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  escaped  me,  for  there  passed  me  a 
party  of  men  so  strangely  dressed  that  at  first  sight 
I  believed  them  to  be  masqueraders.  Then  I 
thought,  "  No,  they  are  the  silent  characters  of  some 
theatre ;"  and  then,  again,  "  No,  they  are  madmen, 
beyond  a  doubt." 

Imagine  them :  for  a  cap  they  wore  a  red  hand- 
kerchief bound  about  the  head  like  a  padded  ring, 
from  which  their  dishevelled  hair  stuck  out  above 
and  below ;  a  blanket,  striped  blue  and  white,  worn 
like  a  mantle,  and  falling  almost  to  the  ground  in 
ample  folds,  like  the  Roman  toga ;  a  wide  blue  sash 
around  the  waist ;  short  breeches  of  black  corduroy 
gathered  in  tight  at  the  knee ;  white  stockings ;  a 
sort  of  sandal  laced  over  the  instep  with  black 
ribbons ;  and  yet  bearing  with  all  this  picturesque 
variety  of  vesture  the  evident  impress  of  poverty, 
but  with  this  evident  poverty  a  manner  not  only 
theatrical,  but  proud  and  majestic,  as  shown  in  their 
carriage  and  gestures — the  air  of  ruined  grandees 
of  Spain ;  so  that  one  was  in  doubt,  on  seeing  them, 
whether  to  laugh  or  to  pity,  whether  to  put  one's 


SARAGOSSA.  57 

hand  in  one's  pocket  and  give  them  an  alms  or  to 
raise  one's  hat  as  a  mark  of  respect.  But  they  were 
simply  peasants  from  the  country  around  Saragossa, 
and  this  which  I  have  described  was  only  one  of  a 
thousand  varieties  of  the  same  manner  of  dress.  As 
I  passed  along  at  every  step  I  saw  a  new  costume. 
Some  were  dressed  in  ancient,  others  in  modern, 
style ;  some  with  elegance,  others  simply ;  some  in 
holiday  attire,  others  with  extreme  plainness  ;  but 
every  one  wore  the  scarf,  the  handkerchief  about 
the  head,  the  white  stockings,  the  cravat  and  parti- 
colored waistcoat. 

The  women  wore  crinolines  with  short  skirts, 
which  showed  their  ankles  and  made  their  hips  seem 
ridiculously  high.  Even  the  boys  wore  the  flow- 
ing mantle  and  the  handkerchief  around  the  head, 
and  posed  in  dramatic  attitudes  like  the  men. 

The  first  square  I  entered  was  full  of  these 
people,  who  were  sitting  in  groups  on  the  doorsteps 
or  lying  about  in  the  angles  formed  by  the  houses, 
some  playing  the  guitar,  others  singing,  many  going 
about  begging  in  patched  and  tattered  garments,  but 
with  a  high  head  and  fiery  eye.  They  seemed  like 
people  who  had  just  come  from  a  tableau  in  which 
together  they  had  represented  a  savage  tribe  from 
some  unknown  country. 

Gradually  the  shops  and  houses  were  opened  and 
the  people  of  Saragossa  began  to  fill  the  streets. 
The  citizens  do  not  appear  different  from  us  in  dress, 


58  SARAGOSSA. 

but  there  is  something  peculiar  in  their  faces. 
They  unite  the  serious  expression  of  the  Catalans 
with  the  alert  air  of  the  Castilians,  and  then  add  a 
fierceness  of  expression  which  belongs  entirely  to 
the  blood  of  Arragon. 

The  streets  of  Saragossa  are  severe,  almost 
depressing,  in  appearance,  as  I  had  imagined  they 
would  be  before  I  saw  them.  Excepting  the  Coso,  a 
wide  street  which  runs  through  a  large  part  of  the 
city,  describing  a  grand  semicircular  curve — the 
Corso  famous  in  ancient  times  for  the  chariot-races, 
jousts,  and  tourneys  which  were  celebrated  in  it  at 
the  times  of  the  public  feasts, — excepting  this 
beautiful  and  cheerful  street  and  a  few  streets  which 
have  recently  been  rebuilt  like  those  of  a  French 
city,  the  rest  are  tortuous  and  narrow,  flanked  by 
tall  houses,  dark  in  color  and  with  few  windows, 
reminding  one  of  ancient  fortresses.  These  are 
the  streets  which  bear  an  impress  and  which  have  a 
character,  or,  as  another  has  said,  a  physiognomy, 
of  their  own — streets  which  once  seen  can  never  be 
forgotten.  Throughout  one's  life  at  the  mention  of 
Saragossa  one  will  see  those  walls,  those  doors,  those 
windows  as  one  saw  them  before.  At  this  moment 
I  see  the  court  of  the  New  Tower,  and  could  draw 
it  house  by  house,  and  paint  each  one  with  its  own 
color  5  and  so  vividly  does  the  picture  live  in  my 
imagination  that  I  seem  to  breathe  that  air  again,  and 
to  repeat  the  words  which  I  then  spoke :  "  This 


Street  in  Saragossa. 


SARAGOSSA.  59 

square  is  tremendous  !  "  Why  ?  I  do  not  know :  it 
may  have  been  an  illusion  of  mine.  It  is  with  cities 
as  with  faces — each  one  reads  them  in  his  own 
way. 

The  streets  and  squares  of  Saragossa  impressed  me 
thus,  and  at  every  turn  I  said,  "  This  place  seems  to 
have  been  made  for  a  combat,"  and  I  looked  around 
as  though  something  was  needed  to  complete  the  scene 
— a  barricade,  the  loopholes,  and  the  guns.  I  felt 
again  all  the  profound  emotions  which  the  account 
of  that  horrible  siege  had  produced  upon  me :  I  saw 
the  Saragossa  of  1809,  and  hurried  from  street  to 
street  with  increasing  curiosity  to  find  the  traces  of 
that  gigantic  struggle  at  which  the  world  trembled. 
Here,  I  thought,  indicating  to  myself  the  place, 
passed  the  division  of  Grandjean,  there  perhaps 
Musnier's  command  sallied  forth ;  at  this  point  the 
troops  of  Morlot  rushed  into  the  fight ;  at  that  angle 
before  me  the  light  infantry  of  the  Vistula  made 
their  charge  ;  still  farther  round  occurred  the  attack 
of  the  Polish  infantry ;  yonder  three  hundred 
Spaniards  were  cut  down;  at  this  spot  burst  the 
great  mine  which  blew  a  company  of  the  Valencian 
regiment  to  atoms ;  in  this  corner  fell  General 
Lacoste,  his  forehead  pierced  by  a  bullet. 

There  lie  the  famous  streets  of  Santa  Engracia, 
Santa  Monica,  and  San  Augustine,  through  which  the 
French  advanced  toward  the  Coso  from  house  to 
house  with  a  blasting  of  mines  and  counter-mines, 


60  SARAGOSSA. 

through  crumbling  walls  and  smoking  beams,  under 
a  tempest  of  bullets,  grape-shot,  and  rocks. 

There  are  the  narrow  ways,  the  little  courts,  the 
dark  alleys,  where  they  fought  those  horrid  battles, 
hand  to  hand,  with  bayonet  and  dagger,  with  scythes 
and  their  very  teeth ;  their  houses  barricaded  and 
defended  room  by  room,  in  the  midst  of  fire  and 
ruin,  the  narrow  stairways  which  ran  with  blood,  the 
gloomy  halls  which  echoed  to  cries  of  pain  and  de- 
spair, which  were  covered  with  mutilated  corpses, 
which  saw  all  the  horrors  of  pestilence,  famine,  and 
death. 

As  I  was  walking  from  street  to  street  I  came  out 
in  front  of  the  cathedral  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Pillar, 
the  terrible  Madonna  to  whom  came  the  squalid  rout 
of  soldiers,  citizens,  and  women  to  plead  for  protec- 
tion and  courage  before  they  went  to  die  on  the  ram- 
parts. The  people  of  Saragossa  still  persevere  in 
their  ancient  fanaticism  in  regard  to  it,  and  venerate 
it  with  a  peculiar  sentiment  of  love  and  fear,  which 
still  lives  in  the  minds  of  persons  who  are  strangers 
to  all  other  religious  feelings.  Nevertheless,  from 
the  moment  you  enter  the  court  and  raise  your  eyes 
toward  the  church  to  the  moment  you  turn  on  leav- 
ing it  to  take  a  farewell  look,  be  careful  not  to 
smile  or  make  any  careless  gesture  which  might  pos- 
sibly seem  irreverent ;  for  there  are  those  who  see 
you,  who  watch  you,  and  who  will  on  occasion  fol- 
low you,  and  if  faith  is  dead  within  you,  prepare 


Cathedral  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Pillar,  Saragossa. 


SARAGOSSA.  61 

your  mind,  before  you  cross  the  sacred  threshold, 
for  a  confused  reawakening  of  those  childish  terrors 
which  few  churches  in  the  world  have  such  power 
to  revive  even  in  the  coldest  and  most  callous  of 
hearts. 

The  first  stone  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Pillar  was  laid 
in  the  year  1686,  in  a  place  where  stood  a  chapel 
erected  by  St.  James  to  receive  the  miraculous  image 
of  the  Virgin,  which  still  remains.  It  is  an  immense 
edifice,  with  a  rectangular  base,  surmounted  by 
eleven  domes  painted  in  different  colors,  giving  the 
whole  a  pleasing  Moorish  effect.  The  walls  are  un- 
adorned and  dark  in  color.  Let  us  enter.  It  is  a 
vast  cathedral,  dark,  bare,  and  cold,  divided  into 
three  naves,  encircled  by  modest  chapels.  One's 
eye  turns  quickly  to  the  sanctuary  which  rises  in  the 
middle  :  there  stands  the  statue  of  the  Virgin.  It  is 
a  temple  within  a  temple,  and  might  stand  alone  in 
the  middle  of  the  square  if  the  building  which  sur- 
rounds it  were  torn  away.  A  circle  of  beautiful 
marble  columns,  arranged  in  the  form  of  an  ellipse, 
bear  up  a  dome  richly  adorned  with  sculpture,  open 
at  the  top,  and  ornamented  within  the  opening  by 
aspiring  figures  of  angels  and  saints.  In  the  centre 
stands  the  great  altar ;  on  its  right  the  statue  of  St. 
James ;  on  the  left,  far  back  under  a  silver  canopy 
which  gleams  against  a  background  of  a  richly- 
draped  velvet  curtain  sown  with  stars,  amid  the 
flashing  of  thousands  of  costly  offerings,  in  the  glare 


62  SARAGOSSA. 

of  innumerable  lights,  the  famous  statue  of  the  Vir- 
gin, where  St.  James  placed  it  nineteen  centuries 
ago,  carved  in  wood,  black  with  age,  all  enveloped 
in  a  bishop's  gown,  excepting  its  head  and  the  head 
of  the  Christ  child.  In  front  of  it,  between  the 
columns  grouped  around  the  sanctuary  and  in  the  far 
recesses  of  the  naves^  in  every  place  from  which  one 
can  see  the  venerated  image,  kneel  faithful  worship- 
pers, prostrate,  their  heads  almost  touching  the  pave- 
ment, their  hands  clasping  the  crucifix — poor  women, 
laboring-men,  ladies,  soldiers,  boys,  and  girls — and 
through  the  different  doorways  of  the  cathedral 
passes  a  continuous  stream  of  people,  walking  slowly 
on  tiptoe,  with  solemn  faces ;  and  in  that  deep  silence 
not  a  murmur,  not  a  rustle,  not  a  sigh ;  the  very  life 
of  the  crowd  seems  suspended :  it  seems  as  though  they 
were  all  expecting  a  divine  apparition,  a  mysterious 
voice,  some  awful  revelation  from  the  dim  sanctuary  ; 
and  even  one  who  does  not  have  their  faith,  and  who 
does  not  pray,  is  forced  to  gaze  himself  at  that  point 
where  all  eyes  are  turned,  and  the  current  of  his 
thoughts  is  interrupted  by  a  sort  of  restless  expec- 
tation. 

"  Oh,  would  that  some  voice  would  speak !"  I 
thought.  "  Would  that  the  "  apparition  would  ap- 
pear !  Would  that  there  might  be  a  word  or  a  sigh 
which  would  turn  my  hair  white  with  fear  and  make 
me  utter  a  cry  the  like  of  which  was  never  heard  on 
earth,  if  so  I  might  for  ever  be  delivered  from  that 


SARAGOSSA.  63 

horrible  doubt  which  saps  my  brain  and  saddens  my 
life ! " 

I  tried  to  enter  the  sanctuary,  but  I  could  not  have 
done  so  without  passing  over  the  shoulders  of  a  hun- 
dred worshippers,  some  of  whom  had  already  be- 
gun to  look  surly  because  I  was  going  around  with  a 
note-book  and  pencil  in  my  hand.  I  attempted  to  go 
down  into  the  subterranean  crypt  where  are  the 
tombs  of  the  archbishops  and  the  urn  which  holds 
the  heart  of  John  II.  of  Austria,  the  natural  son  of 
Philip  IV.,  but  this  I  was  not  allowed  to  do.  I  asked 
to  see  the  vestments,  the  gold,  the  jewels,  which  had 
been  poured  out  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  by  the 
lords,  the  rulers,  and  the  monarchs  of  every  age  and 
every  land,  but  I  was  told  that  it  was  not  the  proper 
time,  and  not  even  by  showing  a  shiny  peseta  was  I 
able  to  corrupt  the  honest  sacristan.  But  I  was  not 
refused  some  information  concerning  the  worship  of 
the  Virgin  after  I  had  told  him,  to  win  favor  in  his 
eyes,  that  I  was  born  in  Rome  in  the  Borgo  Pio,  and 
that  from  the  little  terrace  in  front  of  my  home  I 
could  see  the  windows  of  the  Pope's  apartments. 

"It  is  a  fact,"  said  he,  " almost  a  miracle — and 
one  would  not  believe  it  if  it  were  not  attested  by 
tradition — that  at  the  very  early  time  when  the 
statue  of  the  Virgin  was  placed  on  its  pedestal,  even 
down  to  the  days  in  which  we  are  living,  except  in 
the  night  when  the  cathedral  is  closed,  the  sanctuary 
has  never  been  empty  a  moment — not  even  a 


64  SARAGOSSA. 

moment,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word.  Our  Lady 
of  the  Pillar  has  never  been  alone.  In  the  pedestal 
there  has  been  a  hollow  worn  by  kisses  in  which  I 
could  put  my  head.  Not  even  the  Moors  dared  to 
forbid  the  worship  of  Our  Lady ;  the  chapel  of 
St.  James  was  always  respected.  The  cathedral  has 
been  struck  by  lightning  many  times,  and  the 
sanctuary  too,  even  on  the  inside,  right  in  the  midst 
of  a  crowd  of  people.  Well !  the  souls  of  the  lost 
may  deny  the  protection  of  the  Virgin,  but  no — one 
— has — ever — been — struck  !  And  the  bombs  of 
the  French  ?  They  have  burned  and  ruined  other 
buildings,  but  when  they  fell  on  the  cathedral  of  Our 
Lady  it  was  as  though  they  had  fallen  on  the  rocks 
of  the  Sierra  Morena.  And  the  French,  who 
pillaged  on  every  hand,  did  they  have  the  heart 
to  touch  the  treasures  of  Our  Lady  ?  One  general 
only  allowed  himself  to  take  some  trifling  thing  to 
give  to  his  wife,  offering  a  rich  gift  to  the  Virgin  in 
compensation,  but  do  you  know  what  followed  ?  In 
the  next  battle  a  cannon-ball  carried  away  one  of  his 
legs.  There  is  not  a  trace  of  a  general  or  a  king 
who  has  imposed  on  Our  Lady,  and  moreover  it  is 
written  up  above  that  this  church  will  stand  to  the 
end  of  the  world."  And  he  ran  on  in  this  vein  until 
a  priest  made  a  mysterious  sign  from  a  dark  corner 
of  the  sacristy,  and  he  at  once  bowed  and  dis- 
appeared. 

As  I  came   out  of  the  cathedral,  with  my  mind 


SARAGOSSA.  65 

occupied  with  a  picture  of  the  solemn  sanctuary,  I 
met  a  long  procession  of  Carnival  chariots,  led  by  a 
band  of  music,  accompanied  by  a  crowd,  followed 
by  a  great  number  of  carriages,  on  their  way  to  the 
Coso.  I  do  not  ever  remember  to  have  seen  faces 
so  grotesque,  ridiculous,  and  preposterous  as  those 
worn  by  the  maskers,  and,  although  I  was  alone  and 
not  at  all  disposed  to  merriment,  I  could  no  more 
have  kept  from  laughing  than  I  could  have  done  at 
the  close  of  one  of  Fucini's  sonnets.  The  crowd,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  decorous  and  silent  and  the 
maskers  were  as  grave  as  possible.  One  would 
have  said  that  both  parties  were  more  impressed  by 
the  melancholy  presentiment  of  Lent  than  by  the 
short-lived  gaiety  of  the  Carnival.  I  saw  some 
pretty  little  faces  at  the  windows,  but  as  yet  no  type 
of  that  proverbial  Spanish  beauty,  of  the  rich  dark 
complexion,  and  the  fiery  black  eyes  which  Martinez 
de  la  Rosa,  an  exile  in  London,  remembered  with 
such  passionate  sighs  among  the  beauties  of  the 
North.  I  passed  between  two  carriages,  pushed  my 
way  out  of  the  crowd,  thereby  drawing  down  some 
curses  which  I  promptly  entered  in  my  note-book, 
and  turned  at  random  down  two  or  three  narrow 
little  streets.  I  came  out  at  the  square  of  San 
Salvador  in  front  of  the  cathedral  of  the  same  name, 
which  is  also  called  the  Seo — a  richer  and  more 
splendid  edifice  than  that  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Pillar. 

VOL.  I.— 5 


66  SARAGOSSA. 

Neither  the  Graeco-Roman  facade,  although 
majestic  in  its  proportions,  nor  the  high,  light  tower, 
is  a  preparation  for  the  grand  spectacle  of  the 
interior.  On  entering  I  found  myself  surrounded 
by  gloomy  shadows.  For  an  instant  my  eyes  could 
not  discover  the  outlines  of  the  building.  I  saw 
only  a  shimmer  of  broken  light  resting  here  and  there 
on  column  and  arch.  Then  slowly  I  distinguished 
five  naves,  divided  by  four  orders  of  Gothic 
pilasters,  the  walls  far  in  the  distance,  and  the  long 
series  of  lateral  chapels,  and  I  was  overwhelmed  by 
the  sight.  It  was  the  first  interior  which  corre- 
sponded with  the  image  I  had  formed  of  the  Spanish 
cathedrals,  so  varied,  magnificent,  and  rich.  The 
principal  chapel,  surrounded  by  a  great  Gothic 
dome  in  the  form  of  a  tiara,  alone  contains  the 
riches  of  a  great  church.  The  large  altar  is  of 
alabaster  covered  with  rosettes,  scrolls,  and  arab- 
esques ;  the  vaulted  roof  is  adorned  with  statues ;  on 
the  right  and  left  are  tombs  and  urns  of  princes ; 
in  an  angle  stands  the  chair  in  which  the  kings  of 
Arragon  sat  at  their  coronation.  The  choir  rising 
in  the  middle  of  the  great  nave  is  a  mountain  of 
treasures.  Its  exterior,  broken  by  some  passages 
leading  to  little  chapels,  presents  an  incredible 
variety  of  statuettes,  little  columns,  bas-reliefs, 
friezes,  and  mosaics,  and  one  would  have  to  look  all 
day  to  see  it  thoroughly.  The  pilasters  of  the  two 
outer  naves  and  the  arches  which  span  the  chapels 


SARAGOSSA.  67 

are  richly  adorned  from  the  base  to  the  capital  with 
statues — some  so  enormous  that  they  seem  to  be 
raising  the  edifice  on  their  shoulders — with  pictures, 
sculpture,  and  ornament  of  every  style  and  of  every 
size.  In  the  chapels  there  is  a  wealth  of  statues, 
rich  altars,  royal  tombs,  busts,  and  paintings,  which 
are  so  shrouded  by  the  deep  gloom  that  they  appear 
only  as  a  confused  mass  of  colors,  reflections,  and 
shadowy  forms,  among  which  the  eye  loses  itself  and 
the  imagination  faints.  After  much  running  hither 
and  thither,  with  my  note-book  open  and  pencil  in 
hand,  noting  this  and  sketching  fchat,  with  my  brain 
in  a  whirl,  I  tore  out  the  chequered  leaves,  and, 
promising  myself  that  I  would  not  write  another 
word,  I  left  the  cathedral  and  began  to  walk  through 
the  city,  seeing  for  at  least  an  hour  only  long  dim 
aisles  and  statues  gleaming  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
mysterious  chapels. 

There  come  moments  to  the  gayest  and  most  enam- 
ored traveller,  as  he  walks  the  streets  of  a  strange 
city,  in  which  he  is  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  such 
a  strong  feeling  of  utter  weariness  that  if  he  were 
able  by  a  word  to  fly  back  to  his  home  and  his  dear 
ones  with  the  rapidity  of  the  genii  of  the  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  he  would  pronounce  that  word  with  a  cry 
of  joy.  I  was  seized  by  such  a  feeling  just  as  I 
turned  into  a  narrow  street  far  from  the  centre  of 
the  city,  and  it  almost  terrified  me.  I  anxiously 
rehearsed  all  the  images  I  had  formed  of  Madrid, 


68  SARAGOSSA. 

Seville,  and  Granada,  hoping  in  this  way  to  arouse 
and  rekindle  my  curiosity  and  enthusiasm ;  but 
those  images  now  seemed  dull  and  lifeless.  My 
thoughts  carried  me  back  to  my  home,  when  on  the 
day  before  my  departure  in  my  feverish  impatience 
I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  hour  of  starting ;  but 
even  that  did  not  remove  my  sadness.  The  idea  of 
having  to  see  so  many  more  new  cities,  of  having  to 
pass  so  many  nights  in  hotels,  of  having  to  find  my- 
self for  so  long  a  time  in  the  midst  of  a  strange 
people,  disheartened  me.  I  asked  myself  how  I  could 
have  resolved  to  leave  home.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
were  suddenly  separated  from  my  country  by  a 
measureless  distance — that  I  was  in  a  wilderness 
alone,  forgotten  by  all.  I  looked  around ;  the  street 
was  empty,  my  heart  turned  cold,  tears  gathered  in 
my  eyes.  "I  cannot  stay  here,"  I  said  to  myself; 
"I  shall  die  of  melancholy.  I  will  return  to  Italy." 

I  had  not  made  an  end  of  speaking  these  words 
before  I  almost  burst  into  hysterical  laughter.  In  an 
instant  everything  regained  life  and  splendor  in  my 
eyes.  I  thought  of  Castile  and  of  Andalusia  with  a 
sort  of  frantic  joy,  and,  shaking  my  head  with  an  air 
of  pity  for  my  recent  dejection,  I  lighted  a  cigar  and 
walked  on,  happier  than  I  had  been  at  first. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival :  in  the  even- 
ing on  the  principal  streets  I  saw  a  procession  of 
maskers,  carriages,  bands  of  young  men,  large  family 
parties  with  children  and  nurses  and  budding  girls, 


SARAGOSSA.  69 

walking  two  by  two.  But  there  was  no  disagreeable 
shouting,  no  coarse  songs  of  drunken  men,  no 
troublesome  crowding  and  pushing.  Now  and  then 
one  felt  a  light  rub  on  the  elbow,  but  light  enough  to 
seem  like  the  greeting  of  a  friend  who  would  say, 
11  It  is  I,"  rather  than  the  jostling  of  some  thought- 
less fellow ;  and  together  with  the  touch  at  the 
elbow  there  were  voices,  much  gentler  than  of  old 
when  the  Saragossa  women  used  to  scream  from  the 
windows  of  their  tottering  houses,  and  much  more 
ardent  than  the  boiling  oil  which  they  poured  down 
on  the  invaders.  Oh  !  those  were  certainly  not  the 
times  of  which  I  heard  recently  at  Turin,  when  an 
old  priest  of  Saragossa  assured  me  that  in  seven  years 
he  had  not  received  the  confession  of  a  mortal  sin. 

That  night  I  found  at  the  hotel  a  madcap  of  a 
Frenchman  whose  equal  I  believe  does  not  exist 
under  the  sun.  He  was  a  man  of  forty,  with  one  of 
those  putty-like  faces  which  say  "  Here  I  am  5  come 
and  cheat  me  " — a  wealthy  merchant,  as  it  appeared, 
who  had  just  arrived  from  Barcelona  and  expected 
to  leave  the  next  day  for  St.  Sebastian.  I  found 
him  in  the  dining-room  telling  his  story  to  a  group 
of  tourists,  who  were  bursting  with  laughter.  I  too 
joined  the  circle  and  listened  to  his  story. 

The  fellow  was  a  native  of  Bordeaux,  and  had 
lived  for  years  at  Barcelona.  He  had  left  France 
because  his  wife  had  run  away  from  him,  without 
saying  good-bye,  with  the  ugliest  man  in  the  town, 


70  SARAGOSSA. 

leaving  four  children  on  his  hands.  He  had  never 
heard  of  her  since  the  day  of  her  flight.  Some  told 
him  she  had  gone  to  America,  others  that  she  was 
in  Africa  or  Asia,  but  those  were  mere  groundless 
conjectures.  For  four  years  he  had  believed  her  to 
be  dead.  One  fine  day  at  Barcelona,  as  he  was 
dining  with  a  friend  from  Marseilles,  his  guest  said 
to  him  (but  you  ought  to  have  seen  with  what  comi- 
cal dignity  he  described  the  circumstance) : 

a  My  friend,  I  am  going  to  make  a  trip  to  St.  Se 
bastian  one  of  these  days." 

"What  for?" 

"  Just  a  little  diversion." 

"  A  love-affair,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  least — I  will  tell  you.  It  is  not  exactly 
a  love-affair,  because,  as  for  me,  I  do  not  care  to 
come  in  at  the  tail  end  of  a  love-affair.  It  is  a  ca- 
price. A  pretty  little  woman,  however.  Why,  only 
the  day  before  yesterday  I  received  a  letter.  I  did 
not  want  to  go,  but  there  were  so  many  comes  and  / 
expect  yous  and  my  friends  and  dear  friends,  that  I 
allowed  myself  to  be  tempted."  So  saying,  he  drew 
out  the  letter  with  a  grimace  of  lordly  pride. 

The  merchant  takes  it,  opens  it,  and  reads. 

"  By  the  gods  !  my  wife  !  "  and  without  another 
word  he  leaves  his  friend,  runs  home,  packs  his 
valise,  and  hurries  to  the  station. 

When  I  entered  the  room  the  man  had  just  shown 
the  letter  to  everybody  present,  and  had  spread  on 


SAKAGOSSA.  71 

the  table,  so  that  every  one  could  see  them,  his 
certificate  of  baptism,  his  marriage  articles,  and 
other  papers  which  he  had  brought  along  in  case  his 
wife  might  not  wish  to  recognize  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  we  all  asked 
with  one  voice. 

"  I  shall  not  do  her  any  harm.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind :  there  will  be  no  bloodshed,  but  there  will 
be  a  punishment  even  more  terrible." 

"  But  what  will  that  be  f  "  demanded  one  of  his 
auditors. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  replied  the  French- 
man with  profoundest  gravity,  and,  taking  from  his 
pocket  a  pair  of  enormous  scissors,  he  added 
solemnly,  "  I  am  going  to  cut  off  her  hair  and  her 
eyebrows ! " 

We  all  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"  Messieurs  !  "  cried  the  abused  husband,  "  I  have 
said  it,  and  I  will  keep  my  word.  If  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  here  again,  I  will  see  that 
you  are  presented  with  her  wig." 

Here  ensued  a  pandemonium  of  laughter  and 
shouts  of  applause,  but  the  Frenchman  did  not  for  a 
moment  relax  his  tragic  scowl. 

"  But  if  you  find  a  Spaniard  in  the  house  ?  "  some 
one  asked. 

"  I  shall  then  throw  him  out  of  the  window,"  he 
responded. 

"  But  if  there  are  a  number  there  f  " 


72  SARAGOSSA. 

"  All  the  world  out  of  the  window." 

"  But  you  will  make  a  scandal  5  the  neighbors 
will  run  in,  the  police,  and  the  people." 

"  And  I,"  cried  the  terrible  man,  striking  his  hand 
on  his  chest,  "  I  will  throw  the  neighbors,  the  police, 
the  people,  and  the  whole  city  out  of  the  window  if 
it  is  necessary." 

And  he  went  on  in  this  vein,  swaggering  about 
and  gesticulating  with  the  letter  in  one  hand  and  the 
scissors  in  the  other,  in  the  midst  of  the  convulsive 
laughter  of  the  tourists. 

Vivir  para  ver  (Live  and  see),  says  the  Spanish 
proverb ;  and  it  ought  rather  to  say  viager  (travel), 
for  it  seems  that  only  in  hotels  and  on  the  train  does 
one  fall  in  with  such  originals.  Who  knows  how  it 
all  came  out  in  the  end? 

On  entering  my  room  I  asked  the  waiter  what 
those  two  things  on  the  wall  were  which  I  had  been 
seeing  since  the  evening  of  my  arrival,  and  which 
seemed  to  have  some  claims  to  pass  as  paintings. 

"  Sir,"  he  replied,  "  they  are  nothing  less  than  the 
brothers  Argensola,  Arragonese,  natives  of  Barbastro, 
most  celebrated  poets  of  Spain." 

And  truly  such  were  the  two  brothers  Argensola, 
two  veritable  literary  twins,  who  had  the  same  tem- 
perament, studied  the  same  subjects,  wrote  in  the 
same  style,  pure,  dignified,  and  refined,  striving 
with  all  their  powers  to  raise  a  barrier  against  the 
torrent  of  depraved  taste  which  in  their  time,  the 


SARAGOSSA.  73 

end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  had  begun  to  invade 
the  literature  of  Spain.  One  of  them  died  in 
Naples,  the  secretary  of  the  viceroy,  and  the  other 
died  at  Tarragona,  a  priest.  The  two  left  a  name 
illustrious  and  beloved,  upon  which  Cervantes  and 
Lope  de  Vega  have  placed  the  noble  seal  of  their 
praise.  The  sonnets  of  the  Argensola  brothers  are 
recognized  as  the  most  beautiful  in  Spanish  litera- 
ture for  their  clearness  of  thought  and  dignity  of 
form,  and  there  is  one  of  them  in  particular,  to 
Lupercio  Leonardo,  which  the  legislators  repeat  in 
answer  to  the  grandiloquent  philippics  of  the  orators 
on  the  left,  emphasizing  the  last  lines.  I  quote  it  with 
the  hope  that  it  may  supply  some  of  my  readers 
with  an  answer  to  their  friends  who  reprove  them 
for  being  enamored,  as  was  the  poet,  of  a  lady  with 
a  weakness  for  rouge  : 

"  Yo  os  quiero  confesar,  don  Juan,  primero 
Que  aquel  bianco  y  carmin  de  dona  Elvira 
No  tiene  do  ella  mas,  si  bien  se  raira, 
Que  el  haberle  costado  su  dinero  : 

"Pero  tambien  que  me  confieses  quiero 
Que  es  tanto  la  beldad  de  su  mentira, 
Que  en  vano  a  competir  con  ella  aspira 
Belleza  igual  de  rostro  verdadero. 

"Mas  que  mucho  que  yo  perdido  ande 
Por  un  engano  tal,  pues  que  sabemos 
Que  nos  engafia  asi  naturaleza  ? 


74  SARAGOSSA. 

"  Porque  ese  cielo  azul  que  todos  vemos 
No  es  cielo,  ni  es  azul ;  lastima  grande 
Que  no  sea  verdad  tanta  belleza ! " 

(First,  Don  Juan,  I  wish  to  confess  that  the  comely 
white  and  red  of  Lady  Elvira  are  no  more  hers  than 
the  money  w'ith  which  she  bought  tliem.  But  in  thy 
turn  I  wish  thee  to  confess  that  no  like  beauty  of  an 
honest  cheek  may  dare  compete  with  the  beauty  of  her 
feigning.  But  ivhy  should  I  be  vexed  by  such  decep- 
tion if  it  be  known  th,at  Nature  so  deceives  us  f  And, 
in  fact,  that  the  azure  sky  which  we  all  see  is  truly 
neither  sky  nor  is  it  azure  f  Alas,  that  so  much  beauty 
is  not  true  /) 

The  following  morning  I  wished  to  try  a  pleasure 
similar  to  that  which  Rousseau  indulged  in  following 
the  flight  of  flies — the  pleasure  of  wandering 
through  the  streets  of  the  city  at  random,  stopping 
to  look  at  the  most  insignificant  things,  as  one  would 
do  in  the  streets  at  home  if  one  were  obliged  to  wait 
for  a  friend.  I  visited  some  public  buildings,  among 
them  the  palace  of  the  Bourse,  containing  a  mag- 
nificent hall  in  which  are  twenty-four  columns,  each 
ornamented  with  four  shields  placed  above  the  four 
faces  of  the  capital  and  bearing  the  arms  of  Sara- 
gossa.  I  visited  the  old  church  of  Santiago  and  the 
beautiful  palace  of  the  archbishop  ;  stood  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  vast,  cheerful  Square  of  the  Constitution, 
which  divides  the  Coso,  and  into  which  run  the  two 


SARAGOSSA.  75 

other  principal  streets  of  the  city ;  and  from  that 
point  I  set  out  and  wandered  about  until  noon,  to  my 
infinite  delight.  Now  I  stopped  to  watch  a  boy 
playing  nocino  ;  now  I  poked  my  curious  head  into 
a  little  cafe  frequented  by  scholars  j  now  I  slackened 
my  pace  to  overhear  servants  joking  with  each  other 
at  a  street-corner ;  now  I  flattened  my  nose  against 
the  window  of  a  bookshop ;  now  I  almost  pestered 
a  tobacconist  to  death  by  asking  for  cigars  in 
German ;  now  I  stopped  to  chat  with  a  peddler  of 
matches ;  here  I  bought  a  diary,  then  asked  a 
soldier  for  a  light,  again  asked  a  girl  to  show  me  the 
way,  and,  pondering  the  lines  of  Argensola,  I  com- 
menced facetious  sonnets,  hummed  the  hymn  of 
Riego,  thought  of  Florence,  the  wine  of  Malaga,  the 
counsels  of  my  mother,  of  King  Amadeus,  my  purse, 
a  thousand  things  and  nothing;  and  I  would  not 
have  changed  places  with  a  grandee  of  Spain. 

Toward  evening  I  started  to  see  the  New  Tower, 
one  of  the  most  curious  monuments  in  Spain.  It  is 
eighty-four  metres  high,  or  four  metres  higher  than 
Giotto's  tower,  and  without  a  crack  leans  about  two 
and  a  half  metres  from  the  perpendicular,  like  the 
Tower  of  Pisa.  It  was  erected  in  1304.  Some  af- 
firm that  it  was  built  just  as  it  now  stands,  others 
that  it  settled  afterward ;  there  are  different  opinions. 
It  is  octagonal  in  form,  and  is  built  entirely  of  bricks, 
but  presents  a  marvellous  variety  of  design  and  or- 
namentation— a  different  appearance  at  every  point, 


76  SARAGOSSA. 

a  graceful  blending  of  Gothic  and  Moorish  architec- 
ture. To  gain  admittance  I  was  obliged  to  ask  per- 
mission of  some  municipal  official  who  lived  hard  by, 
who,  after  he  had  eyed  me  carefully  from  the  tips  of 
my  boots  to  the  hairs  of  my  head,  gave  the  key  to 
the  keeper  and  said  to  me,  "  You  may  go,  sir." 

The  keeper  was  a  vigorous  old  man,  who  climbed 
up  the  interminable  steps  much  more  rapidly  than  I 
could  follow. 

"  You  will  have  a  magnificent  view,  sir,"  said  ha 
I  told  him  that  we  Italians  also  had  a  leaning 
tower  like  that  of  Saragossa.  He  turned  so  that  he 
could  look  at  me  and  said  sternly,  "  Ours  is  the  only 
one  in  the  world." — "  Oh,  nonsense  !  I  say  that  we 
have  one  too,  and  I  have  seen  it  with  my  eyes,  at 
Pisa,  but  then,  if  you  don't  want  to  believe  me, 
you  may  read  it  here.  See,  the  guide-book  tells 
about  it." 

He  gave  me  a  look  and  muttered,  "  Perhaps  so." 
Perhaps  so  !  the  stubborn  old  numbskull !    I  could 
have  thrown  the  book  at  his  head. 

Finally  we  reached  the  top.  It  is  a  wonderful 
sight.  One  sees  Saragossa  at  a  glance — the  great 
Coso,  the  avenue  of  Santa  Engracia,  the  suburbs ; 
and  then  below,  where  it  seems  one  can  almost  touch 
them,  the  richly-colored  domes  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Pillar ;  just  beyond,  the  bold  tower  of  the  Seo ;  yon- 
der the  famous  Ebro  sweeping  around  the  city  with 
a  majestic  curve,  and  the  wide  valley,  enamored,  in 


SARAGOSSA.  77 

the  words  of  Cervantes,  with  the  beauty  of  her 
waters  and  the  dignity  of  their  flow  ;  and  the  Huerba 
and  the  bridges  and  the  hills,  which  could  tell  of  so 
many  bloody  repulses  and  desperate  assaults. 

The  keeper  read  in  my  face  the  thoughts  which 
were  passing  through  my  mind,  and,  as  though  he 
was  continuing  a  conversation  which  I  had  com- 
menced, he  began  to  point  out  the  places  at  which 
the  French  forced  their  entrance,  and  where  the  citi- 
zens made  the  most  stubborn  resistance.  "It  was 
not  the  bombs  of  the  French,"  said  he,  "  which  made 
us  surrender.  We  ourselves  burned  the  houses  and 
blew  them  up  with  mines.  It  was  the  plague. 
During  the  last  days  there  were  in  the  hospitals 
more  than  fifteen  thousand  of  the  forty  thousand 
men  who  defended  the  city.  There  was  not  time  to 
bring  in  the  wounded  or  to  bury  the  dead.  The 
ruins  of  the  houses  were  covered  with  putrefying 
corpses,  which  poisoned  the  air.  One-third  of  the 
buildings  of  the  city  were  destroyed,  yet  no  one 
said  surrender,  and  if  any  one  had  done  so,  he  would 
have  been  strung  up  on  one  of  the  gallows  which 
had  been  erected  in  every  square. 

"  We  would  have  died  behind  the  barricades,  in 
the  fire,  beneath  the  rubbish  of  our  walls,  rather  than 
have  bowed  the  head.  But  when  Palafox  found  him- 
self at  the  point  of  death,  when  it  was  known  that 
the  French  were  victorious  in  other  places,  and  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  hope,  then  we  were  obliged 


78  SARAGOSSA. 

to  lay  down  our  arms.  But  the  defenders  of  Sara- 
gossa  surrendered  themselves  with  all  the  honors  of 
war,  and  when  that  crowd  of  soldiers,  peasants, 
monks,  and  boys — haggard,  ragged,  blood-stained, 
and  battle-scarred — filed  out  before  the  French  army, 
the  victors  trembled  with  awe  and  had  not  the  heart 
to  rejoice  over  their  victory.  The  lowest  of  our 
peasants  could  carry  his  head  as  high  as  the  first  of 
their  marshals.  Saragossa" — and,  speaking  these 
words,  the  old  man  was  magnificent — "  Saragossa 
has  spit  in  the  face  of  Napoleon  !  " 

I  thought  at  that  moment  of  Thiers'  history,  and 
the  remembrance  of  his  account  of  the  fall  of  Sara- 
gossa raised  within  me  a  feeling  of  disdain.  Not  one 
generous  word  for  the  sublime  sacrifice  of  that  de- 
voted people  !  To  him  their  valor  was  but  the  rag- 
ing of  fanatics  or  a  senseless  mania  for  war  on  the 
part  of  the  peasants  weary  of  their  monotonous  life 
in  the  fields,  and  of  monks  surfeited  with  the  solitude 
of  the  cell ;  their  unyielding  heroism  was  only  obsti- 
nacy ;  their  love  of  country,  foolish  pride.  They 
did  not  die  pour  cct  ideal  de  grandeur  which  animated 
the  courage  of  the  imperial  troops.  As  if  liberty, 
justice,  and  the  honor  of  a  people  were  not  nobler 
than  the  ambition  of  an  emperor  seeking  to  triumph 
by  treachery  and  wishing  to  rule  with  violence  ! 

The  sun  was  setting,  the  towers  and  minarets  of 
Saragossa  were  gilded  by  the  last  rays,  the  sky  was 
liquid.  Again  I  looked  around  to  impress  clearly 


SARAGOSSA.  79 

upon  my  memory  the  picture  of  the  city  and  the 
country,  and  before  I  descended  I  said  to  the  keeper, 
who  regarded  me  with  an  air  of  benevolent  curi- 
osity :  "  Tell  the  strangers  who  in  after-time  may 
come  to  visit  this  tower  that  one  day  a  young  Italian 
a  few  hours  before  he  started  for  Castile,  in  bidding  a 
last  farewell  to  the  capital  of  Arragon  from  this  bal- 
cony, bared  his  head  with  a  sentiment  of  the  deepest 
reverence,  thus,  and,  as  he  was  not  able  to  kiss,  one 
by  one,  the  brows  of  all  the  descendants  of  the  heroes 
of  1809,  he  gave  a  kiss  to  the  keeper  ; "  and  so  I 
kissed  him  and  he  me,  and  I  went  away  content,  and 
he  too  |  and  you  may  laugh  who  will. 

After  this  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  say  I  had 
seen  Saragossa,  and  I  turned  toward  the  hotel,  sum- 
ming up  my  impressions.  I  was  still  very  desirous 
of  having  a  conversation  with  some  good  Saragossan, 
and  after  dinner  I  entered  a  cafe,  where  I  quickly 
found  an  architect  and  a  shopkeeper,  who  between 
sips  of  chocolate  explained  to  me  the  political  situa- 
tion of  Spain  and  the  most  effectual  means  of 
"  bringing  her  safely  through  her  troubles."  They 
thought  very  differently.  The  shopkeeper,  a  little 
man  with  a  flat  nose  and  a  great  furrow  between  his 
eyes,  wanted  a  federal  republic  right  off  hand,  that 
very  night,  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  he  provided, 
as  a  sinc-qua-non  condition  for  the  prosperity  of  the 
new  government,  the  execution  of  Serrano,  Sagasta, 


80  SARAGOSSA. 

and  Zorilla,  to  convince  them,  once  for  all,  that 
"they  cannot  trifle  with  the  Spanish  people." 
"  And  to  that  king  of  yours,"  he  concluded,  looking 
me  in  the  eyes — "  to  your  king,  whom  you  have 
sent  us — pardon  me,  my  dear  Italian,  for  the  frank- 
ness with  which  I  say  it — to  your  king  I  would  give 
a  first-class  ticket  to  return  to  his  native  Italy, 
where  the  air  is  better  for  kings.  We  are  Spanish, 
my  dear  Italian,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
knee, — "  we  are  Spanish,  and  we  do  not  want 
foreigners,  either  cooked  or  raw." 

tl  I  think  I  have  caught  your  meaning ;  and  you  ?" 
I  asked,  turning  to  the  architect,  "  how  do  you 
believe  Spain  can  be  saved  ? " 

"  There  is  but  one  way,"  he  answered  solemnly  ; 
"  there  is  but  one  way — a  federal  republic ;  in  this 
I  am  of  the  same  mind  as  my  friend,  but  with  Don 
Amadeus  for  president."  (The  friend  shrugged  his 
shoulders.)  "  I  repeat  it — with  Don  Amadeus  as 
president !  He  is  the  only  man  who  could  direct 
the  republic.  This  is  not  my  opinion  alone ;  it  is 
the  opinion  of  a  great  many.  Let  Don  Amadens 
make  it  plain  to  his  father  that  a  monarchy  will 
never  please  us  here ;  let  him  call  Castelar, 
Figueras,  and  Pi  y  Margal  to  the  government ;  let 
him  proclaim  a  republic  and  have  himself  elected 
president,  and  cry  to  Spain,  l  Sirs,  I  am  now  in  com- 
mand, and  if  any  one  raises  his  horns,  let  him  beware 
of  the  rod  ! '  And  then  we  shall  have  true  liberty." 


SARAGOSSA.  81 

The  shopkeeper,  who  did  not  believe  that  true 
liberty  consisted  in  being  beaten  over  the  horns, 
protested,  the  other  replied,  and  the  discussion 
lasted  some  time.  Then  they  began  to  speak  of  tho 
queen,  and  the  architect  declared  that,  although  he 
was  a  republican,  he  had  profound  respect  and  warm 
admiration  for  Donna  Victoria.  "  She  has  a  great 
deal  in  here,"  said  he,  touching  his  forehead  with 
his  finger.  "Is  it  true  that  she  knows  Greek?" 

u  Oh  yes,"  I  replied. 

"  Did  you  hear  that,  eh  f"  he  asked  the  other. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  shopkeeper  in  a  low  voice, 
"but  you  don't  govern  Spain  with  Greek."  He 
admitted,  however,  that,  since  one  must  have  a 
queen,  it  was  desirable  to  have  one  who  was  learned 
and  intelligent,  and  worthy  of  sitting  on  the  throne 
of  Isabella  the  Catholic — who,  as  every  one  knows, 
knew  as  much  Latin  as  a  well-read  professor — rather 
than  to  have  one  of  those  hare-brained  queens  who 
have  no  head  for  anything  but  festivities  and 
favorites.  In  a  word,  he  did  not  wish  to  see  the 
house  of  Savoy  in  Spain.  But  if  anything  could 
plead  a  little  in  its  favor,  it  would  be  the  Greek 
of  the  queen. 

What  a  gallant  republican ! 

There  is,  however,  in  this  race  a  generosity  of 

heart    and    a   vigor   of    mind   which  justify    their 

honorable  fame.     The  Arragonese  are  respected  in 

Spain.     The  people  of  Madrid,  who  pick  flaws  in 

VOL.  I.— 6 


82  SARAGOSSA. 

the  Spaniards  of  all  the  provinces — who  call  the 
Catalans  rough,  the  Andalusians  vain,  the  Valencians 
fierce,  the  Galicians  miserable,  the  Basques  ignor- 
ant—even they  speak  with  a  little  more  reserve  of 
the  haughty  sons  of  Arragon,  who  in  the  nineteenth 
century  have  written  in  their  own  blood  the  most 
glorious  page  in  the  history  of  Spain.  The  name 
of  Saragossa  sounds  to  the  people  like  a  cry  of 
liberty,  and  to  the  army  it  is  a  battle-cry.  But, 
since  there  is  no  rose  without  a  thorn,  this  noble 
province  is  also  a  seed-bed  of  restless  demagogues, 
of  guerilla  chieftains,  of  magistrates,  of  a  people 
with  the  hot  head  and  steady  hand,  who  give  all  the 
government  departments  a  great  deal  to  do.  The 
government  is  obliged  to  caress  Arragon  like  a 
morose,  passionate  son  who  lays  his  plans  to  blow  up 
the  house  if  his  will  is  crossed  in  the  least  thing. 

The  entrance  of  King  Amadeus  into  Saragossa  and 
the  short  stop  he  made  there  in  1871  offered  an 
occasion  for  some  deeds  which  are  worthy  of  being 
retold,  not  only  because  they  refer  to  the  prince,  but 
because  they  are  an  eloquent  expression  of  the 
character  of  the  people ;  and  before  everything  else 
should  come  the  speech  of  the  mayor,  which  made 
such  a  stir  in  and  out  of  Spain,  and  will  probably 
remain  among  the  traditions  of  Saragossa  as  a  classic 
example  of  republican  audacity.  Toward  evening 
the  king  arrived  at  the  railroad-station,  where, 
accompanied  by  an  immense  crowd,  the  delegates  of 


SARAGOSSA.  83 

the  many  municipalities,  the  societies,  and  the  civil 
and  military  corps  of  the  various  cities  of  Arragon 
had  gathered  to  meet  him.  After  the  customary 
cheers  and  applause  had  subsided  the  alcayde  of 
Saragossa  presented  himself  before  the  king,  and 
read  the  following  address  in  an  emphatic  manner : 
"  Sir !  It  is  not  my  own  humble  self,  and  it  is  not 
the  man  of  deep  republican  convictions,  but  in  truth 
the  alcayde  of  Saragossa,  invested  with  the  sacred 
universal  suffrage,  who,  through  a  sense  of  una- 
voidable duty,  presents  himself  here  before  you  and 
submits  himself  to  your  commands.  You  are  about 
to  enter  the  precincts  of  a  city  which,  sated  at  length 
with  glory,  bears  the  title  of  enduring  heroism — a 
city  which,  when  danger  threatened  the  integrity  of 
the  nation,  became  a  new  Numantia — a  city  which 
humbled  the  armies  of  Napoleon  in  their  very  tri- 
umphs. Saragossa  was  the  advance-guard  of  liberty  ; 
to  her  no  government  has  ever  seemed  too  liberal. 
Treason  has  never  found  shelter  in  the  breast  of  any 
of  her  sons.  Enter,  then,  within  the  precincts  of 
Saragossa.  If  you  lack  courage,  you  have  no  need 
of  it,  for  the  sons  of  their  ever-heroic  mother  are 
brave  in  open  field  and  are  incapable  of  treachery. 
There  is  at  this  moment  no  shield  nor  any  army 
more  ready  to  defend  your  person  than  the  loyalty 
of  the  descendants  of  Palafox,  for  their  very  enemies 
find  an  inviolate  asylum  beneath  their  roofs.  Think 
and  consider  that  if  you  walk  steadfastly  in  the  path 


84  SARAGOSSA. 

of  justice ;  if  you  further  the  observance  of  the  laws 
of  the  strictest  morality ;  if  you  protect  the  pro- 
ducer, who  hitherto  has  given  so  much  and  received 
so  little  ;  if  you  maintain  the  integrity  of  the  ballot ; 
if  Saragossa  and  Spain  shall  one  day  owe  to  you  the 
achievement  of  the  sacred  aspiration  of  the  majority 
of  this  great  people  whom  you  have  learned  to  know, 
— then  perhaps  you  may  be  honored  by  a  more 
glorious  title  than  that  of  king.  You  may  then  be 
the  first  citizen  of  the  nation,  and  the  most  dearly 
loved  in  Saragossa,  and  the  Spanish  republic  will 
owe  to  you  her  complete  felicity." 

To  this  address,  which  signified,  after  all,  "We 
do  not  recognize  you  as  king,  but,  however,  you 
may  come  in,  and  we  will  not  murder  you,  because 
heroes  do  not  murder  by  treachery  j  and  if  you  will 
be  brave  and  will  treat  us  as  you  ought  to  do,  we 
will  possibly  consent  to  support  you  as  president  of 
the  republic," — to  this  the  king  replied  with  a  bitter- 
sweet smile  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Too  great  a  con- 
descension," and  pressed  the  hand  of  the  alcayde,  to 
the  great  surprise  of  all  present.  He  then  mounted 
his  horse  and  entered  Saragossa.  The  people,  from 
all  accounts,  received  him  with  delight,  and  from  the 
windows  many  ladies  threw  poems,  garlands,  and  doves 
down  upon  him.  At  some  points  General  Cordova 
and  General  Rosell,  who  accompanied  him,  were 
obliged  to  clear  the  street  with  their  horses.  When 
he  entered  the  Cos/>  a  woman  of  the  people  rushed 


SARAGOSSA.  85 

out  to  present  him  with  some  memorial.  The  king, 
who  had  ridden  past  without  noticing  her,  turned 
back  and  took  it.  Soon  after  a  charcoal-man  pre- 
sented himself  and  stretched  out  his  sooty  hand, 
which  the  king  grasped.  In  the  square  of  Santa 
Engracia  he  was  received  by  a  pompous  masquerade 
of  dwarfs  and  giants,  who  welcomed  him  with  some 
traditional  dances,  amid  the  discordant  cheers  of  the 
multitude.  So  he  passed  through  the  entire  city. 
The  next  day  he  visited  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of 
the  Pillar,  the  hospitals,  the  prisons,  and  the  circus 
of  the  bull-fights,  and  everywhere  his  presence  was 
hailed  almost  with  the  enthusiasm  due  a  monarch,  not 
altogether  without  the  secret  chagrin  of  the  alcayde, 
who  accompanied  him,  and  who  would  have  been 
better  pleased  had  the  people  of  Saragossa  contented 
themselves  with  the  observance  of  the  sixth  com- 
mandment, "  Thou  shalt  not  kill,"  without  entering 
further  upon  his  modest  promises. 

However,  the  king  had  a  joyous  welcome  on  the 
way  from  Saragossa  to  Logrono. 

At  Logrono,  in  the  midst  of  an  innumerable  crowd 
of  peasants,  national  guardsmen,  women,  and  boys, 
he  saw  for  the  first  time  the  venerable  General 
Espartero.  As  soon  as  they  saw  each  other  they  ran 
together ;  the  general  sought  the  hand  of  the  king, 
the  king  opened  his  arms,  and  the  crowd  gave  a 
shout  of  joy.  "  Your  Majesty  !"  said  the  illustrious 
soldier  in  a  husky  voice,  "  the  people  welcome  you 


86  SARAGOSSA. 

with  patriotic  enthusiasm,  because  they  see  in  their 
young  monarch  the  firmest  support  of  the  liberty  and 
independence  of  their  country,  and  are  sure  that  if 
by  any  misfortune  our  enemies  were  to  cause  trouble, 
Your  Majesty,  at  the  head  of  the  army  and  the  citi- 
zen militia,  would  overwhelm  and  rout  them.  My 
broken  health  did  not  suffer  me  to  go  to  Madrid  to 
felicitate  Your  Majesty  and  your  august  consort  upon 
your  establishment  on  the  throne  of  Ferdinand.  To- 
day I  do  so,  and  I  repeat,  once  again,  that  I  will 
serve  faithfully  the  person  of  Your  Majesty  as  king 
of  Spain,  chosen  by  the  will  of  the  nation.  Your 
Majesty,  I  have  in  the  city  a  modest  home,  and  I 
offer  it  to  you,  and  ask  of  you  to  honor  it  with  your 
presence."  In  these  simple  words  the  new  king  was 
greeted  by  the  oldest,  the  best-beloved,  and  the  most 
renowned  of  his  subjects.  A  happy  augury,  though 
sadly  at  variance  with  the  final  outcome  ! 

Toward  midnight  I  went  to  a  masquerade  in  a 
theatre  of  moderate  size  on  the  Coso,  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  Square  of  the  Constitution.  The 
maskers  were  few  and  very  shabby,  but  there  was 
a  compensation  for  this  in  a  dense  crowd  of  people, 
fully  a  third  of  whom  were  dancing  furiously.  Ex- 
cept for  the  language,  I  should  not  have  known  that 
I  was  at  a  masked  ball  in  a  theatre  in  Spain  rather 
than  in  Italy.  I  seemed  to  see  precisely  the  same 
faces.  There  was  the  same  familiarity,  the  same 


SARAGOSSA.  87 

freedom  of  speech  arid  movement,  the  usual  degen- 
eracy of  the  ball  into  noisy  and  unbridled  brawl. 

Of  the  hundred  couples  of  dancers  who  waltzed 
past  me,  only  one  pair  remains  impressed  upon  my 
memory — a  youth  of  twenty  years,  tall,  lithe,  and 
fair,  with  great  black  eyes,  and  a  girl  of  the  same 
age,  brown  as  an  Andalusian — both  beautiful  and  no- 
ble in  their  bearing,  dressed  in  the  ancient  costumes 
of  Arragon,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  face  to  face, 
as  though  the  one  wished  to  breathe  the  other's 
breath,  rosy  as  two  flowers,  and  radiant  with  joy. 
They  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  glancing 
about  with  an  air  of  disdain,  and  a  thousand  eyes 
followed  them  with  a  low  murmur  of  admiration  and 
envy. 

On  leaving  the  theatre  I  stood  a  moment  at  the 
door  to  see  them  pass  again,  and  then  I  turned  toward 
the  hotel  melancholy  and  alone.  The  next  morning 
before  dawn  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Castiles. 


BURGOS 


BURGOS. 


To  go  from  Saragossa  to  Burgos,  the  capital  city 
of  Old  Castile,  one  travels  the  whole  length  of  the 
great  valley  of  the  Ebro,  crosses  a  part  of  Arragon 
and  a  part  of  Navarre,  as  far  as  the  city  of  Miranda, 
situated  on  the  branch  road  which  passes  through  St. 
Sebastian  and  Bayonne. 

The  country  is  full  of  historic  memories,  of  ruins, 
monuments,  and  famous  names ;  every  village  re- 
calls a  battle,  every  province  a  war.  At  Tudela, 
the  French  defeated  General  Castanos  ;  at  Calahorra, 
Sertorius  withstood  Pompey ;  at  Navarrete,  Henry 
de'Transtamare  was  conquered  by  Peter  the  Cruel. 
One  sees  the  remains  of  the  city  of  Egon  ad  Agon- 
cilia  ;  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  aqueduct  at  Alcanadre  ; 
and  the  remains  of  the  Moorish  bridge  at  Logrono. 
The  mind  grows  tired  of  recalling  the  memories  of 
so  many  centuries  and  of  so  many  peoples,  and  the 
eye  grows  weary  with  the  mind. 

The  appearance  of  the  country  changes  every  mo- 
ment. Near  Saragossa  there  are  green  fields  dotted 
with  houses,  while  here  and  there  one  sees  groups 
of  peasants  wrapped  in  their  many-colored  shawls, 

91 


92  BURGOS. 

and  occasionally  donkeys  and  carts.  Farther  on 
there  are  only  vast  undulating  plains,  bare  and  arid, 
without  a  tree,  or  a  house,  or  a  road,  where  for  mil^s 
and  miles  one  sees  only  a  herd  of  cattle,  a  cowherd, 
and  a  hut,  or  some  little  village  of  mud-colored, 
thatched  cottages,  so  low  that  one  can  scarcely  dis- 
tinguish them  from  the  ground — groups  of  huts 
rather  than  villages,  true  pictures  of  poverty  and 
squalor. 

The  Ebro  winds  beside  the  railroad  in  great 
curves,  now  so  close  that  the  train  seems  on  the 
point  of  plunging  into  it,  now  looking  in  the  distance 
like  a  silver  line  appearing  and  disappearing  between 
the  hillocks  and  through  the  underbrush  along  its 
banks.  In  the  distance  one  sees  a  purple  chain  of 
mountains,  and  beyond  them  the  snowy  peaks  of  the 
Pyrenees.  Near  Tudela  one  sees  a  canal,  and  after 
Custejon  the  country  becomes  green  again ;  as  one 
advances  the  arid  plains  alternate  with  olive-groves, 
and  here  and  there  lines  of  varid  green  break  the 
yellow  expanse  of  the  deserted  land.  On  the  distant 
hilltops  one  sees  the  ruins  of  enormous  castles,  sur- 
mounted by  towers  broken,  gaping,  and  fallen  to  de- 
cay, like  the  great  trunks  of  giants,  prostrate,  but 
threatening. 

At  every  station  I  bought  a  paper ;  before  I  had 
travelled  half  the  distance  I  had  a  mountain,  the 
journals  of  Madrid  and  Arragon,  big  and  little,  black 
and  red,  but,  unfortunately,  not  one  friendly  to 


Water-Carrier. 


BURGOS.  93 

Amadeus.  And  I  say  "  unfortunately,"  because  to 
read  those  papers  was  to  fall  into  the  temptation  to 
turn  ray  back  on  Madrid  and  start  for  home.  From 
the  first  column  to  the  last  there  was  a  passionate 
outburst  of  insults,  imprecations,  and  threats  directed 
against  Italy,  scandals  about  our  king,  burlesques  of 
our  ministers,  the  wrath  of  God  implored  to  descend 
upon  our  army, — the  whole  founded  upon  the  report, 
then  current,  of  a  coming  war  in  which  the  allied 
powers  of  Italy  and  Germany  would  suddenly  attack 
France  and  Spain  for  the  purpose  of  destroying 
Catholicism,  the  eternal  enemy  of  them  both,  of 
establishing  the  duke  of  Genoa  upon  the  throne  of 
St.  Louis,  and  of  securing  the  throne  of  Philip  II.  for 
the  duke  of  Aosta.  There  were  threats  in  the  lead- 
ing articles,  threats  in  the  clippings,  threats  in  the 
notices,  threats  in  prose  and  in  verse,  displayed  with 
sketches,  capital  letters,  and  long  rows  of  exclama- 
tion points ;  dialogues  between  father  and  son,  the 
one  at  Rome,  the  other  in  Madrid,  one  of  whom 
would  ask,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  Whereupon  the 
other  would  reply,  "Shoot!"  or,  again,  "Let  them 
come  ;  we  are  ready  :  we  are  ever  the  Spain  of  1808. 
The  conquerors  of  the  armies  of  Napoleon  have  no 
fear  of  the  ugly  mugs  of  King  William's  Uhlans  or 
of  the  yells  of  Victor  Emanuel's  sharpshooters." 
And  then  King  Amadeus  would  be  called  u  poor 
child ;"  the  Italian  army  described  as  a  crowd  of 
ballet-dancers  and  opera-singers ;  the  Italians  in 


94  BURGOS. 

Spain  requested  to  take  their  departure  by  the  gentle 
hint,  "  Italians  to  the  train."  In  short,  ask  what  you 
would,  and  there  was  something  to  meet  your  wish. 
I  must  confess  that  for  a  short  time  I  was  a  little  dis- 
turbed. I  imagined  that,  at  Madrid,  Italians  could 
hardly  fail  to  be  hooted  in  the  streets ;  I  remem- 
bered the  letter  which  I  had  received  at  Genoa,  re- 
peated to  myself,  u  Italians  to  the  train  "  as  advice 
worthy  of  serious  consideration ;  I  glanced  with  sus- 
picion at  the  travellers  who  entered  the  carriage, 
and  at  the  railroad-employees,  and  expected  that  on 
first  spying  me  they  would  say,  "  Look  at  that  Italian 
emissary !  Let  us  send  him  to  keep  company  with 
General  Prim." 

On  nearing  Miranda  the  railroad  enters  a  moun- 
tainous region,  varied  and  picturesque,  where  on 
every  side,  wherever  one  looks,  one  sees  only  dark 
gray  rocks  which  suggest  to  the  imagination  a  sea 
turned  into  stone  at  the  time  of  a  storm,  stretching 
away  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  It  is  a  country 
full,  of  savage  beauty,  lonely  as  a  desert,  silent  as  a 
glacier,  which  represents  to  the  fancy,  as  it  were,  a 
vision  of  an  uninhabited  planet,  and  impresses  one 
with  a  mingled  feeling  of  sadness  and  fear.  The 
train  passed  between  two  walls  of  rock,  sharp- 
pointed,  hollowed,  and  crested,  serrated  in  every 
manner  and  form,  so  that  it  seemed  as  though  a 
crowd  of  stonecutters  had  spent  their  entire  lives  in 
cutting  furiously  on  every  side,  working  blindly  to 


BURGOS.  95 

see  who  could  make  the  most  erratic  marks.  The 
railroad  then  comes  out  into  a  vast  plain  thickly 
wooded  with  poplar,  among  which  rises  Miranda. 

The  station  is  a  long  way  from  the  city,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  wait  in  the  cafe*  until  nightfall  for 
the  train  to  Madrid.  For  three  hours  I  had  no  other 
company  than  that  of  the  two  custom-officers,  called 
in  Spain  carabineros^  dressed  in  a  severe  uniform, 
with  a  dagger  and  pistols  and  a  carbine  slung  across 
their  shoulders. 

There  were  two  or  three  of  them  at  every  station. 
The  first  few  times  I  saw  the  barrels  of  their  car- 
bines opposite  the  window  I  thought  they  had  come 
there  to  arrest  some  one,  and  perhaps  .  .  .  ;  and 
without  thinking  I  put  my  hand  on  my  passport. 

They  are  handsome  young  fellows,  brave  and 
courteous,  and  the  traveller  who  is  obliged  to  wait 
can  be  pleasantly  entertained  by  talking  with  them 
about  Carlists  and  contrabands,  as  I  did,  with  great 
advantage  to  my  Spanish  vocabulary.  Toward 
evening  a  Mirandese  came  in :  he  was  a  man  of 
about  fifty,  a  politician,  bright  and  talkative,  and 
so  I  left  the  carabimros  to  join  him.  He  was  the 
first  Spaniard  who  fully  explained  the  political  situ- 
ation to  me.  I  asked  him  to  unravel  a  little  this 
precious  tangle  of  parties,  of  which  I  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  the  thread,  and  he  was  well  pleased 
to  do  so,  and  Avent  into  the  subject  very  thoroughly. 

"  It  is  described  in  two  words,"  he  began.     "  See 


96  BURGOS. 

how  matters  stand !  There  are  five  principal 
parties — the  Absolutist,  the  Moderate,  the  Conserva- 
tive, the  Radical,  and  the  Republican.  The  Abso- 
lutist is  divided  into  two  other  parties,  the  out-and- 
out  Carlists  and  the  dissenting  Carlists.  The 
Moderate  party  has  separated  into  two,  one  of  which 
favors  Isabella,  the  other  Alphonso.  The  Conserva- 
tive party  is  made  up  of  four — get  them  clearly 
fixed  in  your  mind :  the  Canovists,  led  by  Canovas 
del  Castillo ;  the  ex-Montpensierists,  led  by  Rios  y 
Rosas ;  the  Fronterizos,  led  by  General  Serrano ;  and 
the  Historical  Progressionists,  led  by  Sagasta.  The 
Radical  party  is  divided  into  four — the  Democratic 
Progressionists,  headed  by  Zorilla;  the  Cimbrios, 
headed  by  Martos ;  the  Democrats,  by  Ribero ;  and 
the  Economists,  headed  by  Rodriguez.  The  Repub- 
lican party  is  composed  of  three  elements — the 
Unionists,  led  by  Garcia  Ruiz ;  the  Federalists, 
headed  by  Figueras  ;  and  the  Socialists,  by  Garrido. 
The  Socialists  are  again  divided  into  two  parties — 
the  International  Socialists,  and  the  Socialists  with- 
out international  sympathies.  In  all  there  are  six- 
teen parties,  and  these  sixteen  are  still  further  sub- 
divided. Martos  is  trying  to  constitute  a  party  of 
his  own,  Candan  to  form  a  second  party,  and  Moret 
a  third.  Rios  y  Rosas,  Pi  y  Margal,  and  Castelar 
are  each  forming  their  own  party.  There  are 
accordingly  twenty-two  parties  already  formed  or 
in  process  of  formation.  Add  to  these  the  partisans 


BUKGOS.  97 

of  the  republic,  with  Amadeus  for  president ;  the 
partisans  of  the  queen,  who  would  gladly  trip  up  the 
heels  of  Amadeus ;  the  partisans  of  the  Montpensier 
monarchy  ;  those  who  are  republicans  on  the  condition 
that  Cuba  be  retained  j  those  who  are  republicans 
on  the  condition  that  Cuba  be  given  up ;  those  who 
have  not  yet  renounced  the  prince  of  Hohenzollern ; 
those  who  long  for  a  union  with  Portugal  j  and  you 
will  have  thirty  parties. 

"If  one  wished  to  be  still  more  accurate,  one 
might  subdivide  still  further,  but  it  is  better  to  get  a 
clear  idea  of  matters  as  they  stand.  Sagasta 
inclines  toward  the  Unionists,  Zorilla  toward  the 
Republicans;  Serrano  is  disposed  to  support  the 
Moderates ;  the  Moderates,  if  they  had  an  oppor- 
tunity, would  join  hands  with  the  Absolutists,  who, 
in  their  turn,  would  join  with  the  Republicans,  who 
would  unite  with  a  part  of  the  Radicals  to  blow  the 
minister  Sagasta  skyhigh,  as  he  is  too  conservative 
for  the  Democratic  Progressionists  and  too  liberal 
for  the  Unionists,  who  are  afraid  of  the  Federalists, 
while  they,  the  Federalists,  on  their  part,  do  not 
place  much  confidence  in  the  Radicals,  who  are 
always  vacillating  between  the  Democrats  and  the 
followers  of  Sagasta. 

"  Have  I  given  you  a  clear  idea  of  the  situation  f 
a  As  clear  as  amber,"  I  answered  with  a  shudder. 

I  recall  the  journey  from  Miranda  to  Burgos  as  I 
VOL.  I.— 7 


98  BURGOS. 

would  the  page  of  a  book  read  in  bed  when  the 
eyes  begin  to  close  and  the  flame  of  the  candle 
droops,  for  I  was  dead  with  sleep.  From  time  to 
time  one  of  my  fellow-travellers  shook  me  to  make 
me  look  out.  The  night  was  calm  and  glorious, 
with  clear  moonlight.  Whenever  I  looked  out  of 
the  window  I  saw  on  both  sides  of  the  track  huge 
rocks  of  fantastic  form,  so  close  that  they  seemed 
about  to  fall  upon  the  train.  They  were  white  as 
marble,  and  shone  so  brightly  that  one  could  have 
counted  all  the  points,  the  hollows  arid  the  boulders, 
as  easily  as  in  broad  daylight. 

"  We  are  at  Pancorbo,"  said  my  neighbor.  "  Look 
at  that  height !  Up  there  stood  a  terrible  castle  which 
the  French  destroyed  in  1813.  This  is  Briviesca. 
Look !  here  John  I.  of  Castile  summoned  the  States 
General,  who  granted  the  title  of  prince  of  Asturia 
to  the  heir  to  the  throne.  Look !  there  is  the 
mountain  of  Brujola,  which  touches  the  stars." 

He  was  one  of  those  indefatigable  cicerones  who 
would  talk  even  to  an  umbrella,  and  while  he  was 
eternally  saying  "  Look !"  he  kept  punching  me  in 
the  side  near  my  pocket.  At  last  we  arrived  at 
Burgos ;  my  neighbor  disappeared,  without  saying 
good-bye.  I  took  a  cab  to  a  hotel,  and  just  as  I  was 
about  to  pay  the  driver  I  discovered  that  the  little 
purse  in  which  I  carried  change,  and  which  I  was  in 
the  habit  of  carrying  in  my  overcoat  pocket,  was 
missing.  I  thought  of  the  States  General  of 


BURGOS.  99 

Briviesca,  and  ended  the  matter  with  a  philosophic 
"  I  deserved  it,"  without  making  an  outcry,  as  many 
do  on  similar  occasions,  "  By  the  gods !  where  can 
we  be  I  what  a  terrible  country !"  as  though  there 
are  not  in  their  own  lands  light-fingered  people, 
who  would  carry  off  a  purse  without  even  having 
the  courtesy  to  tell  one  of  the  history  or  geography 
of  the  country. 

The  hotel  where  I  stopped  was  served  by  girls,  as 
are  all  the  hotels  in  Castile.  There  were  six  or 
seven  of  them,  like  great  overgrown  children, 
plump  and  muscular,  who  came  and  went  with  their 
arms  full  of  mattresses  and  linen,  bending  back  in 
athletic  attitudes,  rosy,  panting,  and  laughing,  so 
that  it  made  one  happy  to  see  them.  A  hotel  with 
women-servants  is  an  entirely  different  thing  from 
an  ordinary  hotel.  The  traveller  seems  to  feel  less 
strange  and  goes  to  rest  with  a  quieter  heart.  The 
women  impart  a  certain  home-like  air  to  the  house 
which  almost  makes  one  forget  one's  loneliness 
wheresoever  one  may  be.  They  are  more  attentive 
than  men ;  knowing  that  the  traveller  is  inclined  to 
be  melancholy,  they  try  to  change  his  thoughts. 
They  laugh  and  talk  in  a  familiar  way  in  an  effort 
to  make  one  feel  like  a  member  of  the  family  and 
in  safe  hands.  There  is  an  air  of  housewifery  about 
them,  and  they  serve  one,  not  because  it  is  their 
business,  but  because  they  like  to  make  themselves 
useful.  They  sew  on  buttons  with  an  air  of  protec- 


100  BURGOS. 

tion ;  they  take  the  clothes-brush  out  of  one's  hand 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Let  me  have  it,  you  good-for-nothing  thing !" 
They  pick  the  hairs  off  of  your  clothes  when  you 
are  going  out,  and  when  you  come  back,  all 
bespattered  with  mud,  they  say,  "  Oh  !  poor  fellow !" 
They  advise  you  not  to  sleep  with  your  head  too 
low  when  they  bid  you  good-night ;  they  bring  your 
coffee  to  you  in  bed,  telling  you  benevolently  to 
"  Lie  still ;  don't  get  up  !"  One  of  them  was  named 
Beatrice,  another  Carmelita,  and  a  third  Amparo 
(protection),  and  they  all  three  possessed  that  ponder- 
ous highland  beauty  which  makes  one  exclaim  in  a 
deep  voice,  "  What  splendid  creatures  !"  When  they 
ran  along  the  corridors  they  shook  the  whole  house. 

At  sunrise  next  morning  Amparo  called  in  my 
ear,  "  Cdballero  /"  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I 
was  in  the  street. 

Burgos,  built  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Arlanzon,  is  an  irregular  city, 
with  narrow,  winding  streets,  with  few  noteworthy 
buildings,  and  the  larger  part  of  its  houses  not  older 
than  the  seventeenth  century.  But  it  possesses  one 
particular  characteristic  which  gives  it  a  curious  and 
genial  appearance.  It  is  painted  in  many  colors, 
like  one  of  those  scenes  in  a  puppet-show  by  which 
the  painters  are  expected  to  draw  cries  of  admira- 
tion from  the  servants  in  the  pit.  It  seems  like  a 
city  colored  on  purpose  for  a  Carnival  celebration, 


BURGOS.  101 

with  the  intention  of  having  it  whitewashed  after- 
ward. The  houses  are  red,  yellow,  blue,  gray,  and 
orange,  with  ornaments  and  trimmings  of  a  thousand 
other  colors ;  and  everything  is  painted — the  door- 
frames, the  railings  of  the  landings,  the  gratings, 
cornices,  corbels,  reliefs,  balconies,  and  window-sills. 
All  the  streets  seem  to  have  been  prepared  for  a 
festival.  At  every  turn  a  new  effect  strikes  the  eye  ; 
in  every  direction  there  is,  as  it  were,  a  rivalry  in 
displaying  the  most  conspicuous  colors.  It  almost 
makes  one  laugh :  they  are  such  colors  as  have 
never  before  been  seen  on  walls — green,  flesh-color, 
purple,  colors  of  rare  flowers,  of  sauces,  sweets,  and 
stuffs  for  ball-dresses.  If  there  were  at  Burgos  an 
asylum  for  mad  painters,  one  would  say  that  the 
city  had  been  painted  one  day  when  its  doors  had 
been  broken  open. 

To  make  the  appearance  of  the  houses  more 
pleasing,  a  great  many  windows  have  in  front  of 
them  a  sort  of  covered  balcony  enclosed  with  an 
abundance  of  glass  like  a  case  in  a  museum.  There 
is,  as  a  rule,  one  of  these  on  every  floor,  the  one 
above  resting  on  the  one  below,  and  the  lowest  of  all 
on  the  show-window  of  a  shop,  in  such  a  way  that 
from  the  ground  to  the  roof  they  look  altogether 
like  the  single  window  of  an  immense  store. 
Through  the  windows  on  every  floor  one  sees,  as 
though  they  were  on  exhibition,  visions  of  girls  and 
children,  flowers,  landscapes,  and  cardboard  figures 


102  BURGOS. 

from  France,  embroidered  curtains,  lace,  and  Moorish 
ornaments.  If  I  had  not  known  differently,  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  me  that  such  a  city  could 
be  the  capital  of  Old  Castile — of  a  people  who  have 
a  reputation  for  gravity  and  anxiety  ;  I  should  have 
believed  it  to  be  a  city  of  Andalusia,  where  the 
people  are  gayest.  I  had  expected  to  see  a  decorous 
nation  where  I  found  a  coquettish  masker. 

After  two  or  three  turns  I  came  out  into  a  vast 
square  called  the  Plaza  Mayor,  or  the  Square  of  the 
Constitution.  It  was  entirely  surrounded  by  ochre 
houses  with  porticoes,  and  in  the  middle  stood  a 
bronze  statue  of  Charles  III.  I  had  not  yet  looked 
around  when  a  boy  ran  toward  me,  enveloped  in  a 
long  cape  torn  off  at  the  bottom,  and  dragging 
behind  him  two  old  shoes  and  waving  a  paper  in 
the  air: 

"  Want  the  Impartial)  caballero  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Want  a  Madrid  lottery-ticket  ?" 

"No  indeed!" 

"  Want  some  contraband  cigars  ?" 

"No." 

"Want  — ?" 

"Well?" 

My  friend  scratched  his  chin  :  "  Want  to  see  the 
remains  of  the  Cid?" 

Gracious !  what  a  leap !  But  no  matter ;  let  us 
go  and  see  the  remains  of  the  Cid. 


BURGOS.  103 

We  went  to  the  municipal  palace,  and  there  an 
old  janitress  made  us  cross  three  or  four  narrow 
passages  until  she  stopped  us  where  all  of  them 
converged.  "  Behold  the  remains  !"  said  the  woman, 
pointing  to  a  sort  of  coffin  resting  upon  a  pedestal  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  I  approached  and  raised 
the  cover  and  looked  in.  There  were  two  compart- 
ments, at  the  bottom  of  which  one  could  see  some 
bones  heaped  together  like  fragments  of  broken 
furniture.  "  These,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  are  the 
bones  of  the  Cid,  and  these  others  the  bones  of 
Ximenes  his  wife." 

I  took  in  my  hand  the  shin-bone  of  one  and  a  rib 
of  the  other,  looked  at  them,  felt  them,  and  turned 
them  over,  but,  as  I  was  unable  by  their  aid  to 
resurrect  the  features  of  husband  and  wife,  I 
replaced  them.  The  woman  showed  me  a  wooden 
seat,  almost  in  pieces,  propped  against  the  wall,  and 
bearing  an  inscription  which  said  that  it  was  the  seat 
upon  which  sat  the  first  judges  of  Castile,  Nunnius 
Rasura  and  Calvo  Lainus,  the  great-great-grand- 
fathers of  the  Cid ;  which  is  the  same  thing  as  say- 
ing that  this  precious  piece  of  furniture  has  stood  in 
the  very  same  place  for  the  goodly  period  of  nine 
hundred  years.  I  have  it  before  my  eyes  at  this 
moment,  sketched  in  my  note-book  in  serpentine 
lines,  and  I  seem  to  hear  the  good  woman  asking, 
"  Are  you  a  painter  ?"  as  I  stood  leaning  my  chin  on 
my  pencil  to  admire  rny  masterpiece.  In  the  next 


104  BURGOS. 

room  she  showed  me  a  brazier  of  the  same  antiquity 
as  the  old  seat,  and  two  paintings — one  of  the  Cid 
and  the  other  of  Ferdinand  Gouzales,  the  first  count 
of  Castile,  both  of  which  are  so  dark  and  faded  that 
they  do  not  suggest  the  image  of  those  personages 
any  better  than  did  the  shin-bone  and  the  ribs  of  the 
illustrious  consorts. 

From  the  municipal  palace  I  was  conducted  along 
the  bank  of  the  Arlanzon  to  an  extensive  square,  with 
gardens,  fountains,  and  statues,  surrounded  by  hand- 
some new  buildings.  Across  the  river  lies  the  suburb 
of  Bega,  and  behind  it  rise  the  barren  hills  which 
tower  above  the  city.  At  one  end  of  the  square 
stands  the  monumental  gate  of  Santa  Maria,  erected 
in  honor  of  Charles  V.,  and  ornamented  with  statues 
of  the  Cid,  Ferdinand  Gonzales,  and  the  emperor, 
while  beyond  the  gate  rise  the  majestic  spires  of 
the  cathedral. 

It  was  raining ;  I  was  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
square,  without  an  umbrella.  I  raised  my  eyes  to  a 
window  and  saw  a  woman,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
servant,  looking  at  me  and  laughing,  as  if  to  say, 
"  Who  is  that  crazy  man  ?"  This  was  so  unexpected 
that  I  was  a  little  disconcerted,  but  I  tried  my  best 
to  appear  indifferent,  and  started  toward  the  cathe- 
dral by  the  shortest  cut. 

The  cathedral  of  Burgos  is  one  of  the  largest, 
most  beautiful,  and  richest  monuments  of  Chris- 
tendom. Ten  times  I  wrote  these  words  at  the  top 


Burgos  Cathedral. 


BURGOS.  105 

of  the  page,  and  ten  times  I  lacked  the  courage  to 
continue,  so  feeble  and  inadequate  are  the  powers  of 
my  mind  for  the  task  of  describing  it. 

The  facade  runs  along  a  little  square  from  which 
one  is  able  to  see  only  a  part  of  the  immense  struc- 
ture ;  on  the  other  sides  run  crooked,  narrow  streets 
which  shut  off  the  view.  From  all  parts  of  the  vast 
roof  spring  graceful  spires,  rising  above  the  highest 
buildings  of  the  city,  and  richly  adorned  with 
ornaments  of  the  color  of  dark  limestone.  In  front, 
to  the  right  and  left  of  the  fagade,  rise  two  tapering 
belfries  covered  with  sculpture  from  base  to  summit, 
ornamented  with  open-work  carving  and  stone 
embroidery  of  charming  grace  and  delicacy. 
Farther  on,  from  a  point  near  the  centre  of  the 
church,  rises  a  tower  equally  rich  with  bas-reliefs 
and  carvings.  On  the  facade,  at  the  angles  of  the 
belfries  and  along  the  different  elevations,  beneath 
the  arches  and  on  all  the  walls,  stand  an  innumerable 
multitude  of  statues — angels,  martyrs,  warriors,  and 
princes — so  close,  so  various  in  pose,  and  brought 
out  in  such  strong  relief  by  the  light  background 
of  the  edifice,  that  they  almost  present  to  the  view 
an  appearance  of  life,  like  a  celestial  legion  stationed 
to  guard  the  monument. 

On  raising  the  eyes  beyond  the  faqade  to  the 
pinnacles  of  the  farthest  spires,  comprehending  at  a 
glance  all  that  delicate  harmony  of  line  and  color, 
one  experiences  a  feeling  of  exquisite  pleasure,  as 


106  BURGOS. 

when  one  listens  to  a  strain  of  music  which  sweeps 
gradually  upward  from  the  expression  of  solemn 
prayer  to  an  ecstasy  of  sublime  inspiration. 

Before  one  enters  the  church  one's  imagination  is 
far  beyond  the  things  of  earth.  You  enter.  The 
first  emotion  of  which  you  are  conscious  is  a  sudden 
strengthening  of  faith  if  you  have  it,  and  a  yearning 
of  the  soul  toward  faith  if  you  have  it  not.  It  does 
not  seem  possible  that  this  measureless  mass  of  stone 
can  be  a  vain  work  of  man's  superstition.  It  seems 
to  affirm,  to  prove,  to  command  something.  It  is 
like  a  superhuman  voice  crying  to  the  earth,  "  I  AM  !" 
It  exalts  and  abases,  like  a  promise  and  a  threat, 
like  a  dazzling  burst  of  sunlight  followed  by  a 
thunder-clap.  Before  you  have  looked  about  you 
feel  the  need  of  rekindling  in  your  heart  the  dying 
embers  of  divine  love ;  you  feel  unfamiliar  and 
humiliated  before  that  miracle  of  aspiration,  genius, 
and  labor.  The  timid  no  which  whispers  in  the 
depths  of  your  soul  dies  with  a  groan  beneath  the 
dreadful  YES  which  reverberates  in  your  brain. 
First  you  look  vaguely  round,  trying  to  discover 
the  limits  of  the  edifice,  which  are  concealed  by 
the  choir  and  the  enormous  pilasters.  Then  you  run 
your  eyes  along  the  columns  and  the  highest  arches, 
your  glance  rising  and  falling,  darting  rapidly  along 
the  endless  lines,  which  follow  each  other,  inter- 
weave, correspond,  and  are  lost,  like  rockets  cross- 
ing in  space ;  up  and  through  the  great  vaults,  and 


BURGOS.  107 

your  heart  is  lost  in  boundless  admiration,  as  though 
all  those  lines  issued  from  your  own  brain,  inspired 
by  the  act  of  following  them  with  your  eyes.  Then 
suddenly  you  are  assailed,  as  it  were,  by  dismay,  a 
feeling  of  sadness  that  you  have  not  time  in  which 
to  see  it  all,  the  genius  to  comprehend  it,  nor  the 
memory  to  retain  the  innumerable  miracles  which 
you  have  but  dimly  seen  on  every  side,  crowded 
about  you,  towering  above  you,  stupefying  you — 
miracles  which  come,  you  would  say,  not  by  the 
hands  of  men,  but  by  a  second  creation  from  the 
hand  of  God. 

The  church  belongs  to  the  order  of  architecture 
known  as  Gothic  of  the  Renaissance  period.  It  is 
divided  into  three  very  long  naves,  crossed  in  the 
middle  by  a  fourth,  which  separates  the  choir  from 
the  great  altar.  Over  the*  space  between  the  altar 
and  the  choir  rises  a  dome  formed  by  the  tower 
which  one  sees  from  the  square.  You  turn  your 
eyes  upward  and  stand  a  quarter  of  an  hour  gazing 
with  open  mouth.  You  are  enraptured  by  a  vision 
of  bas-reliefs,  statues,  columns,  little  windows, 
arabesques,  flying  arches,  and  airy  carvings,  all 
harmonizing  in  a  design  at  once  grand  and  delicate, 
which  at  the  first  sight  makes  you  tremble  and  smile 
like  the  sudden  bursting  and  flashing  of  an  immense 
display  of  fireworks.  A  thousand  vague  images  of 
paradise,  which  hovered  round  our  childish  slum- 
bers, spring  together  from  the  ecstatic  mind  and 


108  BURGOS. 

soar  upward  like  a  cloud  of  butterflies  alighting  on 
the  thousand  reliefs  of  the  highest  vault,  flying  about 
and  intermingling,  and  your  eyes  follow  them  as 
though  you  really  saw  them,  and  your  heart  beats 
faster  and  a  sigh  escapes  you. 

If  you  turn  from  the  dome  and  look  around,  an 
even  grander  spectacle  awaits  you.  The  chapels 
are  like  so  many  other  churches  in  size,  variety,  and 
richness.  In  each  of  them  lies  entombed  a  prince, 
a  bishop,  or  a  grandee.  The  tomb  is  placed  in  the 
centre,  and  upon  it  rests  a  memorial  statue  of  the 
dead,  the  head  lying  on  a  pillow  and  the  hands 
clasped  on  the  breast ;  the  bishops  clothed  in  their 
most  gorgeous  robes,  the  princes  in  their  armor,  and 
the  women  in  their  gala  attire.  Each  of  the  tombs 
is  covered  by  an  ample  pall,  which  falls  over  the 
sides  and  takes  the  form  of  the  raised  portions  of 
the  statue,  so  that  it  really  makes  them  look  like  the 
rigid  limbs  of  a  human  corpse.  Whichever  way  one 
turns,  one  sees  in  the  distance,  between  the  measure- 
less pilasters,  behind  the  rich  gratings,  in  the 
uncertain  shimmer  of  light  descending  from  the 
high  windows,  the  mausoleums,  the  funereal  hang- 
ings, and  the  rigid  outlines  of  the  dead.  On 
approaching  the  chapels  one  is  amazed  by  the  lav- 
ish use  of  sculpture,  marbles,  and  gold  in  the  orna- 
mentation of  the  walls,  ceilings,  and  altars.  Each 
chapel  contains  a  host  of  angels  and  saints  carved  in 
marble  or  wood,  colored,  gilded,  and  draped. 


BURGOS.  109 

On  whatever  part  of  the  pavement  one's  glance 
may  fall  it  is  at  once  led  upward  from  bas-relief  to 
bas-relief,  from  niche  to  niche,  from  arabesque  to 
arabesque,  from  painting  to  painting,  to  the  very 
roof,  and  then  by  another  chain  of  carvings  and 
frescoes  it  is  led  down  from  the  roof  to  the 
pavement. 

On  whatever  side  you  turn  your  eyes  you  see  eyes 
gazing  back  into  your  own,  beckoning  hands,  the 
heads  of  cherubs  peeping  at  you,  draperies  which 
seem  instinct  with  life,  floating  clouds,  crystal 
spheres  tremulous  with  light — an  infinite  variety  of 
forms,  colors,  and  reflections  which  dazzle  the  eyes 
and  confuse  the  brain. 

A  volume  would  not  be  sufficient  for  a  description 
of  all  the  masterpieces  of  sculpture  and  painting 
which  are  scattered  through  this  vast  cathedral.  In 
the  vestry  of  the  chapel  of  the  constables  of  Castile 
hangs  a  very  beautiful  Magdalene,  attributed  to 
Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  in  the  chapel  of  the  Presenta- 
tion, a  Virgin  attributed  to  Michelangelo ;  and  in 
another  chapel,  a  Holy  Family  attributed  to  Andrea 
del  Sarto.  It  is  not  certainly  known  who  the  paint- 
ers of  these  pictures  were,  but  when  I  saw  the  cur- 
tains which  concealed  them  withdrawn  and  heard 
those  names  reverently  spoken,  I  shivered  from 
head  to  foot.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  experienced 
in  its  fulness  that  sense  of  gratitude  which  we  owe 
to  the  great  artists  who  have  made  the  name  of 


110  BURGOS. 

Italy  honored  and  precious  the  world  over.  I 
learned  for  the  first  time  that  they  are  not  only  the 
illustrators,  but  also  the  benefactors,  of  their 
country — benefactors  not  only  of  those  who  have 
the  ability  to  appreciate  and  admire  them,  but  of 
those  also  who  are  blind  to  their  works,  and  even 
of  those  who  are  careless  and  ignorant  of  them. 
For  he  who  lacks  the  sense  of  beauty  does  not  lack 
national  pride,  or,  if  he  lacks  even  this,  he  still  has 
personal  pride,  and  feels  his  heart  deeply  stirred 
when  he  hears  some  one,  even  though  it  be  only  a 
sacristan,  say,  "  He  was  born  in  Italy,"  and  the 
careless  man  smiles  and  is  happy.  But  for  his  smiles 
and  his  enjoyment  he  is  a  debtor  to  those  great 
names,  which  inspired  no  feeling  of  admiration  in 
him  before  he  passed  the  confines  of  his  country. 
Wherever  one  goes  these  great  names  accompany 
and  protect  one  like  invisible  friends ;  they  make 
one  seem  less  foreign  among  foreigners ;  they  cast 
upon  one's  face  the  lustre  of  their  own  glory.  How 
many  smiles,  how  many  hand-clasps,  how  many 
courteous  words  from  unknown  people  do  we 
Italians  not  owe  to  Raphael,  Michelangelo,  Ariosto, 
and  Rossini ! 

If  one  wishes  to  see  this  cathedral  in  a  day,  one 
must  run  past  the  masterpieces.  The  carved  door 
which  opens  into  the  cloister  is  said  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world  after  the  doors  of  the  Baptistery 
of  Florence.  Behind  the  great  altar  stands  a  stu- 


BURGOS.  Ill 

pendous  bas-relief  by  Philip  of  Borgogna,  represent- 
ing the  Passion  of  Christ — a  marvellous  composition, 
for  the  execution  of  which  one  man's  lifetime  does 
not  seem  sufficient.  The  choir  is  a  veritable  museum 
of  sculpture  of  incredible  richness.  The  cloister  is 
full  of  tombs  surmounted  by  recumbent  statues,  and 
about  them  runs  a  profusion  of  bas-reliefs.  In  the 
chapels,  around  the  choir,  in  the  passages  of  the 
.sacristy,  everywhere,  are  paintings  by  the  greatest 
Spanish  masters,  statuettes,  columns,  and  ornaments. 
The  great  altar,  the  organs,  the  doors,  the  staircases, 
the  gratings,  everything,  is  grand  and  magnificent, 
and  at  the  same  time  arouses  and  rebukes  one's  ad- 
miration. But  why  add  word  to  word  ?  Could  the 
most  minute  description  give  a  living  image  of  it  all  ? 
And  even  if  I  were  to  write  a  page  for  every  paint- 
ing, for  every  statue,  for  every  bas-relief,  could  I 
produce  in  another's  heart,  even  for  a  moment,  the 
emotions  which  I  felt  myself? 

A  sacristan  came  up  to  me  and  whispered  in  my 
ear,  as  though  he  was  telling  me  a  secret. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  Christ  ?" 

"What  Christ!" 

"  Why,"  he  answered,  "  the  famous  one,  as  every 
one  knows." 

The  famous  Christ  of  the  cathedral  of  Burgos, 
which  bleeds  every  Friday,  is  worthy  of  particular 
attention.  The  sacristan  leads  the  way  into  a  mys- 
terious chapel,  closes  the  window-shutters,  lights  the 


112  BURGOS. 

candles  on  the  altar,  pulls  a  cord ;  the  curtain  falls 
back,  and — there  is  the  Christ !  If  you  do  not  take 
to  your  heels  at  the  first  sight,  you  are  brave  indeed. 
A  real  corpse  hanging  on  a  cross  could  not  be  more 
horrible.  It  is  not  a  painted  wooden  statue  like  other 
images :  it  is  a  stuffed  skin,  and  they  say  the  skin  is 
that  of  a  man.  It  has  real  hair,  real  eyebrows  and 
eyelashes,  and  a  real  beard.  The  hair  is  matted 
with  blood,  and  there  are  streaks  of  blood  on  the 
breast,  the  legs,  and  the  hands.  The  wounds  which 
seem  like  real  wounds,  the  color  of  the  skin,  the  con- 
traction of  the  face,  the  attitude,  the  expression, — 
each  thing  is  terribly  real.  If  you  touched  the  body, 
you  would  expect  to  feel  the  tremor  of  the  limbs  and 
the  warmth  of  the  blood.  The  lips  seem  to  be  mov- 
ing and  to  be  opened  in  a  cry  of  lamentation.  You 
cannot  long  endure  the  sight,  and  in  spite  of  your- 
self you  avert  your  face  and  say  to  the  sacristan,  "  I 
have  seen  it." 

After  the  Christ  one  ought  to  see  the  celebrated 
coffer  of  the  Cid.  It  is  a  battered,  worm-eaten 
coffer,  suspended  from  the  wall  of  one  of  the  rooms 
in  the  sacristy.  The  story  runs  that  the  Cid  took 
this  coffer  with  him  in  his  wars  against  the  Moors, 
and  that  the  priests  used  it  for  an  altar  in  the  cele- 
bration of  mass.  One  day  the  doughty  warrior, 
finding  his  money-bags  empty,  filled  the  coffer  with 
stones  and  scraps  of  iron,  and  had  it  carried  to  a 
Hebrew  money-lender,  to  whom  he  said,  "  The  Cid 


BURGOS.  113 

has  need  of  money.  He  might  sell  his  treasures,  but 
he  does  not  wish  to  do  so.  Give  him  the  money 
which  he  stands  in  need  of,  and  he  will  speedily  re- 
turn it  with  usury  of  ninety-nine  per  cent.,  and  he 
leaves  in  your  hands  as  a  pledge  this  precious  cof- 
fer which  contains  his  fortune.  But  upon  one  con- 
dition— that  you  swear  to  him  not  to  open  it  until  he 
has  restored  what  he  owes  you.  It  is  a  secret  that 
must  be  known  only  to  God  and  me.  Make  your 
decision."  Either  money-lenders  of  that  day  re- 
posed greater  faith  in  army  officers,  or  else  they  had 
an  ounce  less  of  shrewdness,  than  they  now  have ; 
at  any  rate,  it  is  a  fact  that  the  usurer  accepted  the 
proposal  of  the  Cid,  took  the  oath,  and  gave  him  the 
money.  Whether  or  not  the  Cid  lived  up  to  his 
promise  I  do  not  know,  nor  can  I  tell  if  the  Jew 
brought  suit.  But  the  fact  remains  that  the  coffer  is 
still  in  existence,  and  that  the  sacristan  tells  the  story 
with  great  gusto,  without  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion 
that  the  transaction  was  the  act  of  a  hardened  villain 
rather  than  an  ingenious  caprice  of  a  facetious  man 
of  honor. 

Before  leaving  the  cathedral  you  should  get  the 
sacristan  to  tell  you  the  famous  legend  of  Papa- 
Moscas.  Papa-Moscas  is  an  automaton  of  life-size 
placed  on  the  case  of  a  clock  above  the  door  inside 
of  the  church.  Once  upon  a  time,  like  the  cele- 
brated automatons  of  the  clock  of  Venice,  he  would 
come  forth  from  his  hiding-place  at  the  stroke  of  the 

VOL.  I.— 8 


114  BURGOS. 

hour,  and  at  every  stroke  he  would  utter  a  cry  and 
make  an  odd  gesture,  whereupon  the  faithful  were 
filled  with  the  greatest  delight,  the  boys  laughed,  and 
the  religious  services  were  disturbed.  To  end  this 
scandalous  behavior,  a  stern  bishop  had  some  of 
Papa-Moscas'  sinews  cut,  and  from  that  day  he 
has  stood  there  motionless  and  silent.  But,  never- 
theless, they  do  not  stop  telling  of  his  deeds  in  Bur- 
gos and  throughout  all  Spain,  and  even  beyond 
Spain.  Papa-Moscas  was  a  creature  of  Henry  III., 
and  hence  arose  his  great  importance. 

The  story  is  exceedingly  curious.  Henry  III., 
the  king  of  gallant  adventures,  who  once  sold  his 
cloak  to  buy  something  to  eat,  was  accustomed  to  go 
to  the  cathedral  every  day  incognito  to  pray.  One 
morning  his  eyes  met  those  of  a  young  woman  who 
was  praying  before  the  tomb  of  Ferdinand  Gonzales  : 
their  glances  were  bound  together,  as  The'ophile 
Gautier  would  say.  The  young  woman  arose ;  the 
king  followed  as  she  left  the  church,  and  walked 
behind  her  to  her  home.  For  many  days,  at  the 
same  place  and  hour,  they  again  saw  each  other, 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  told  their  love  and 
sympathy  by  their  glances  and  their  smiles.  The 
king  always  followed  the  lady  as  far  as  her  home, 
without  speaking  a  word  and  without  her  giving  a 
sign  that  she  desired  him  to  speak.  One  morning, 
on  leaving  the  church,  the  beautiful  unknown  dropped 
her  handkerchief;  the  king  picked  it  up,  hid  it  in  his 


BURGOS.  115 

bosom,  and  offered  her  his  own.  The  lady  took  it 
with  many  blushes,  and,  drying  her  tears,  she  disap- 
peared. From  that  day  Henry  saw  her  no  more.  A 
year  later,  while  hunting  in  a  wood,  the  king  was 
attacked  by  six  ravenous  wolves.  After  a  long 
struggle  he  killed  three  of  them  with  his  sword,  but 
his  strength  was  already  failing  and  he  was  on  the 
point  of  being  devoured  by  the  others.  At  that  mo- 
ment he  heard  the  report  of  a  gun  and  a  strange 
cry,  at  which  the  remaining  wolves  took  to  flight. 
He  turned  and  saw  a  mysterious  woman  staring  at  him 
with  fixed  eyes,  without  the  power  to  utter  a  word. 
The  muscles  of  her  face  were  horribly  distorted,  and 
a  shrill  cry  of  lamentation  burst  from  her  breast. 
Recovering  from  his  first  surprise,  the  king  recog- 
nized in  the  woman  the  lady  whom  he  had  loved  in 
the  cathedral,  With  a  cry  of  joy  he  rushed  to  em- 
brace her,  but  the  lady  stopped  him  by  exclaiming 
with  a  heavenly  smile,  "  I  have  loved  the  memory 
of  the  Cid  and  of  Ferdinand  Gonzales  because  my 
heart  loves  all  that  is  noble  and  generous  ;  therefore 
I  loved  thee  also,  but  my  duty  restrains  me  from  ful- 
filling this  love,  which  would  have  been  the  happi- 
ness of  my  life.  Accept  the  sacrifice."  As  she  spoke 
these  words  she  fell  to  the  ground  and  died  without 
finishing  the  sentence,  pressing  the  king's  handker- 
chief to  her  heart.  A  year  afterward  Papa-Moscas 
stepped  out  on  the  case  of  the  clock  to  announce  the 
hour  for  the  first  time.  King  Henry  had  him  made 


116  BURGOS. 

to  honor  the  memory  of  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 
Papa-Moscas'  cry  reminded  the  king  of  the  cry  with 
which  his  deliverer  had  frightened  off  the  three 
wolves  in  the  forest.  The  story  runs  that  King 
Henry  wanted  to  hear  Papa-Moscas  repeat  also  the 
words  of  love  which  the  woman  spoke.  But  the 
Moorish  artist  who  constructed  the  automaton  de- 
clared, after  many  vain  efforts,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  satisfy  this  desire  of  the  tender-hearted  monarch. 

After  hearing  this  story  I  took  another  turn 
through  the  cathedral,  thinking  with  sadness  that  I 
should  never  see  it  again — that  in  a  little  while  all 
these  marvellous  works  of  art  would  only  linger  with 
me  as  a  memory,  and  that  one  day  this  memory 
would  be  obscured  or  confused  with  others,  and 
finally  be  obliterated.  A  priest  was  preaching  from 
the  pulpit  in  front  of  the  great  altar.  His  voice  was 
scarcely  audible.  A  crowd  of  women  were  kneeling 
on  the  pavement  with  bowed  heads  and  clasped 
hands,  listening  to  him.  The  preacher  was  an  old 
man  of  venerable  appearance ;  he  spoke  in  gentle 
accents  of  death,  eternal  life,  and  angels,  making  a 
gesture  with  his  head  at  every  period,  as  though  he 
were  seeking  to  lift  up  some  fallen  one  and  saying, 
"  Arise !"  I  could  have  given  him  my  hand  with 
the  cry,  "  Raise  me  !" 

The  cathedral  of  Burgos  is  not  so  depressing  as 
all  the  other  cathedrals  of  Spain.  It  calmed  my 
spirit  and  disposed  me  to  quiet  religious  thought.  I 


BURGOS.  117 

went  out,  repeating  softly,  almost  unconsciously, 
"  Raise  me !"  Turning  to  look  once  more  at  the 
bold  spires  and  the  airy  belfries,  I  started  toward 
the  centre  of  the  city,  musing  on  many  things. 

Turning  a  corner,  I  found  myself  in  front  of  a 
shop  which  made  me  shudder.  There  are  others 
like  it  in  Barcelona  and  Saragossa,  and  indeed  in  all 
other  Spanish  cities,  but  somehow  I  had  not  seen 
them.  It  was  a  large,  clean  shop,  with  show-win- 
dows to  the  right  and  left  of  the  door.  On  the 
threshold  stood  a  woman  knitting  a  stocking  and 
smiling,  and  at  the  back  of  the  shop  a  boy  was  play- 
ing. Nevertheless,  when  he  saw  that  shop  the  most 
phlegmatic  man  would  feel  faint  at  heart  and  the 
gayest  would  be  troubled.  I  give  you  a  thousand 
chances  to  guess  what  it  contained.  In  the  windows, 
behind  the  doors,  along  the  walls,  and  as  high  as 
they  could  be  placed  one  above  another,  in  nice 
rows  like  crates  of  fruit,  some  covered  by  a  finely 
embroidered  curtain,  others  figured,  gilded,  carved, 
and  painted,  were  coffins — «,t  the  back,  coffins  for 
adults ;  in  front,  coffins  for  children.  One  of  the 
show-windows  adjoined  the  window  of  a  butcher- 
shop  in  such  a  Avay  that  the  coffins  almost  touched 
the  eggs  and  cheese.  And  one  can  easily  imagine 
how  a  flustered  citizen,  thinking  he  was  going  to  buy 
his  breakfast,  might  miss  the  door  and  stumble  in 
among  the  caskets — a  mistake  not  likely  to  increase 
his  appetite. 


118  BURGOS. 

While  we  are  speaking  of  shops  let  us  enter  a  to- 
bacco-shop and  notice  how  it  differs  from  our  own. 
In  Spain,  with  the  exception  of  cigarettes  and  Ha- 
vanas — which  are  sold  in  special  shops — they  do  not 
smoke  cigars  which  cost  less  than  tres  cuartos,  a 
sum  equal  to  about  three  cents.  These  resemble  our 
Roman  cigars,  although  they  are  not  quite  so  large, 
and  are  very  good  indeed  or  very  bad  according  to 
their  manufacture,  which  has  become  rather  careless. 
Regular  customers,  who  are  called  in  Spanish  by  the 
very  curious  name  of  parroquianos,  can  get  escogidos 
(selected  cigars)  by  paying  something  extra ;  the  man 
of  fastidious  taste,  by  adding  still  more  to  the  sum, 
can  secure  los  escogidos  dc  la  escogidos  (the  choicest 
of  the  choice).  On  the  counter  stands  a  little  plate 
with  a  wet  sponge  to  moisten  stamps,  without  the 
annoyance  of  having  to  lick  them,  and  in  a  corner 
is  a  little  box  for  letters  and  stamps.  The  first  time 
one  enters  one  of  these  shops,  especially  if  there  are 
many  in  it,  it  makes  one  laugh  to  see  the  three  or 
four  salesmen  throwing  the  money  on  the  counter  so 
hard  that  it  bounces  up  higher  than  their  heads,  and 
catching  it  in  the  air  with  the  ease  of  dice-throwers. 
They  do  this  only  to  ascertain  by  the  sound  if  the 
money  is  good,  for  there  are  a  great  many  counter- 
feits in  circulation.  The  coin  in  commonest  circula- 
tion is  the  real,  which  is  equal  to  about  four  cents ; 
four  realcs  make  a  peseta  ;  five  pesetas,  a  duro,  which 
is  equal  to  one  dollar  of  blessed  memory  if  you  will 


BURGOS.  119 

add  a  few  pennies.  Five  dollars  make  a  doblon  dc 
Isabel,  a  gold-piece.  The  people  calculate  by  realcs. 
The  real  is  divided  into  eight  cuartos,  or  seventeen 
ocliavos,  or  thirty-four  maravedis — Moorish  coins 
which  have  lost  their  original  form  and  resemble 
worn  buttons  rather  than  coins.  Portugal  also  has  a 
monetary  unit  smaller  than  ours,  the  reis,  which  is 
not  equal  to  a  half  cent  in  value,  and  everything 
is  counted  by  the  rets.  Imagine  a  poor  traveller 
who  has  arrived  in  all  his  ignorance,  eaten  a  good 
breakfast,  and  asked  for  his  bill,  when  he  hears 
the  waiter  say  with  a  stern  face,  not  eighty  cents, 
but  eight  hundred  rei-s  !  It  makes  his  hair  stand 
on  end. 

Before  evening  I  went  to  see  the  birthplace  of 
the  Cid.  If  I  had  not  thought  of  it  myself,  the 
guides  would  certainly  have  suggested  it  to  me,  for 
everyAvhere  I  went  they  kept  whispering  in  my  ear, 
"  The  remains  of  the  Cid !"  "  Monument  of  the 
Cid !"  An  old  man,  majestically  wrapped  in  his 
cloak,  said  to  me  with  an  air  of  protection,  "  Venga 
listed  commigo "  (Come  with  me,  sir),  and  he  made 
me  climb  a  hill  overlooking  the  city,  on  the  top  of 
which  one  can  still  see  the  remains  of  an  enormous 
castle,  the  ancient  dwelling-place  of  the  kings  of 
Castile.  Before  reaching  the  monument  of  the 
Cid  one  comes  to  a  triumphal  arch  in  the  Doric 
style,  simple  and  graceful,  which  was  erected  by 
Philip  II.  in  honor  of  Ferdinand  Gonzales  on  the 


120  BURGOS. 

same  spot,  it  is  said,  where  stood  the  house  in  which 
the  famous  commander  was  born.  A  little  farther 
on  one  finds  the  monument  of  the  Cid,  erected  in 
1784.  It  is  a  stone  column,  standing  on  a  pedestal 
of  masonry  and  surrounded  by  an  heraldic  shield 
which  bears  this  inscription :  "  In  this  place  stood 
the  house  where  was  born,  in  the  year  1026,  Rodrigo 
Diaz  de  Bivar,  known  as  the  Cid  Campeador.  He 
died  in  Valencia  in  1099,  and  his  body  was  borne  to 
the  monastery  of  St.  Peter  of  Cardena  near  this 
city."  While  I  was  reading  these  words  the 
cicerone  told  me  a  popular  legend  about  the  death 
of  the  hero.  "  When  the  Cid  died,"  said  he,  very 
gravely,  "  there  was  no  one  left  to  guard  his  corpse. 
A  Jew  entered  the  church,  approaching  the  bier, 
and  said,  '  Behold  the  great  Cid,  whose  beard  no  one 
dared  to  touch  so  long  as  he  was  alive.  I  will  touch 
it  now,  and  will  see  what  he  is  able  to  do.'  So  say- 
ing, he  stretched  out  his  hand,  but  as  he  was  just  on 
the  point  of  touching  it  the  corpse  grasped  the  hilt 
of  his  sword  and  drew  it  a  hand's-breadth  out  of  the 
scabbard.  The  Jew  uttered  a  cry  and  fell  to  the 
ground  half  dead.  The  priests  ran  in,  the  Jew  was 
lifted  up,  and  when  he  came  to  himself  he  told  the 
miracle.  Then  they  all  looked  toward  the  Cid,  and 
saw  that  his  hand  still  rested  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword 
in  a  threatening  attitude.  God  willed  that  the  body 
of  the  great  warrior  should  not  be  defiled  by  the 
hand  of  an  unbeliever."  When  the  guide  had  said 


BURGOS.  121 

this  he  looked  at  me,  and,  perceiving  that  I  made 
not  the  least  sign  of  incredulity,  he  led  me  under- 
neath a  stone  arch,  which  must  have  been  one  of  the 
old  gates,  a  few  steps  distant  from  the  monument, 
and,  pointing  out  a  horizontal  mark  which  was 
visible  on  the  wall  a  few  feet  above  the  ground,  he 
said  to  me,  "  This  is  the  measure  of  the  Cid's  arms 
when  he  was  young  and  came  here  to  play  with  his 
companions ;"  and  he  stretched  his  arms  along  the 
mark  to  let  me  see  how  much  longer  it  was.  Then 
he  wished  me  to  measure  also,  and  I  too  was  too 
short,  whereupon  he  gave  me  a  look  of  triumph  and 
started  to  go  back  to  the  city.  Coming  to  a  lonely 
street,  he  stopped  before  the  door  of  a  church  and 
said  to  me,  u  This  is  the  church  of  Saint  Agnes, 
where  the  Cid  made  King  Alfonso  VI.  swear  that  he 
had  not  had  any  part  in  the  murder  of  his  brother 
Sancho."  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  whole  story, 
and  he  continued : 

"  The  prelates,  the  knights,  and  the  other  dig- 
nitaries of  the  state  were  present.  The  Cid  put  the 
Bible  on  the  altar  and  made  the  king  place  his  hand 
on  it,  and  then  the  Cid  said  to  him :  '  King  Alfonso, 
you  must  swear  to  me  that  you  are  not  stained  by 
the  blood  of  Don  Sancho  my  lord,  and,  if  you  swear 
falsely,  may  you  die  by  the  hand  of  a  traitorous 
vassal !'  and  the  king  said,  *  Amen,'  but  he 
changed  color.  And  the  Cid  said  again :  l  King 
Alfonso,  you  must  swear  that  you  neither  ordered 


122  BURGOS. 

nor*  counselled  the  death  of  Don  Sancho  my  lord ; 
and,  if  you  swear  falsely,  may  you  die  by  the  hand  of 
a  traitorous  vassal !'  and  the  king  said,  '  Amen/  but 
he  changed  color  a  second  time.  Twelve  vassals 
confirmed  the  oath  of  the  king.  The  Cid  would 
have  kissed  his  hand,  but  the  king  would  not  permit 
him  to  do  so,  and  hated  him  from  that  moment  to 
the  end  of  his  life."  The  old  man  added,  however, 
that  another  tradition  records  the  fact  that  he  did 
not  have  King  Alfonso  sworn  on  the  Bible,  but  on  a 
bolt  of  the  church-door,  and  that  for  a  long  time 
travellers  came  from  all  the  countries  of  the  world 
to  see  that  bolt ;  that  the  people  attributed  to  it  I 
knoAv  not  what  supernatural  virtues,  and  so  it  was 
much  spoken  of  in  every  place ;  and  that  it  gave  rise 
to  so  many  and  such  extravagant  fables  that  the 
bishop,  Don  Fray  Pascual,  was  constrained  to  have 
it  removed,  because  it  created  a  dangerous  rivalry 
between  the  door  and  the  high  altar.  The  cicerone 
told  me  nothing  more,  but  one  could  fill  several 
volumes  if  he  wished  to  collect  all  the  traditions  of 
the  Cid  which  are  current  in  Spain.  No  legendary 
warrior  was  ever  dearer  to  his  people  than  this 
terrible  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar.  Poetry  has  made 
him  little  less  than  a  god;  his  glory  lives  in  the 
national  spirit  of  the  Spaniards,  as  though  a  few 
lustres,  instead  of  eight  centuries,  had  passed  since 
the  times  in  which  he  lived.  The  heroic  poem 
which  is  called  by  his  name,  the  greatest  monument 


BURGOS.  123 

of  the  poetry  of  Spain,  still  continues  to  be  the  most 
powerful  national  work  in  Spanish  literature. 

As  evening  was  drawing  on  I  went  to  walk 
beneath  the  portico  of  the  Plaza  Mayor,  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  something  of  the  people.  But  the  rain 
was  pouring  down  and  a  high  wind  was  blowing,  so 
I  found  only  some  groups  of  boys,  workmen,  and 
soldiers,  and  directly  turned  back  to  the  hotel.  The 
emperor  of  Brazil  had  arrived  in  the  morning,  and 
was  leaving  for  Madrid  that  night.  In  the  room 
where  I  dined,  together  with  some  Spaniards — who 
talked  pleasantly  with  me  until  the  hour  of  departure 
arrived — there  dined  also  all  the  major-domos,  the 
valets,  servants,  and  clerks  of  His  Imperial  Majesty, 
and  the  dear  knows  who  else,  a  household  which  sat 
around  a  large  table  and  filled  it  full.  In  all  my 
life  I  have  never  seen  a  more  motley  crowd  of 
human  beings.  There  were  white,  black,  yellow, 
and  copper-colored  faces,  with  some  eyes  and  noses 
and  mouths  which  could  not  be  equalled  in  the  whole 
collection  of  the  Pasquino  of  Teza.  Every  one  was 
talking  in  a  different  and  much-abused  language ; 
one  spoke  English,  another  Portuguese,  another 
French,  another  Spanish,  while  some  spoke  a  mix- 
ture of  all  four  languages,  the  like  of  which  was 
never  heard  before,  adding  words,  sounds,  and 
accents  of  some  outlandish  dialect.  However,  they 
understood  each  other  and  jabbered  all  together, 


124  BURGOS. 

making  such  a  confusion  that  it  seemed  as  though 
they  were  speaking  the  horrible  secret  language  of 
some  savage  land  unknown  to  the  world. 

Before  I  left  Old  Castile,  the  cradle  of  the  Spanish 
monarchy,  I  wished  to  see  Soria,  the  town  built  on  the 
ruins  of  ancient  Numantia ;  Segovia,  with  its  im- 
mense Roman  aqueduct ;  Sant  Idelfonso,  the  de- 
lightful garden  of  Philip  V. ;  and  Avilo,  the  native 
city  of  Saint  Theresa.  But  when  I  had  hurriedly 
and  in  desperation  gone  through  the  four  elementary 
operations  of  arithmetic  before  buying  my  ticket  to 
Valladolid,  I  said  to  myself  that  there  was  nothing 
great  to  be  seen  in  those  four  cities,  that  the 
"  Guide "  exaggerated,  that  fame  has  pieced  out 
their  little  attractions,  that  it  is  better  to  see  a  few 
things  rather  than  many,  if  only  those  few  are  well 
seen  and  will  be  remembered.  I  indulged  in  these 
and  other  sophistries,  and  they  corresponded  perfectly 
with  the  results  of  my  calculation  and  the  motives 
of  my  hypocrisy. 

So  I  left  Burgos  without  having  really  seen  any- 
thing but  monuments,  cicerones,  and  soldiers,  for  the 
fair  Castilians,  frightened  by  the  rain,  had  not  dared 
to  risk  their  little  feet  in  the  streets,  and  therefore 
my  recollections  of  the  city  are  rather  sad,  in  spite 
of  the  gorgeousness  of  its  colors  and  the  magnificence 
of  its  cathedral. 

From  Burgos  to  Valladolid  the  country  is  almost 
the  same  as  that  from  Saragossa  to  Miranda.  There 


BURGOS.  125 

are  the  same  vast,  desolate  plains,  bounded  by  dun- 
colored  hills  of  angular  form  with  bare  summits. 
These  silent,  solitary  wastes,  flooded  by  dazzling 
light,  bear  one  away  in  fancy  to  African  deserts,  to 
the  hermit's  life,  to  the  sky,  to  the  infinite,  and  raise 
in  the  heart  an  irrepressible  feeling  of  weariness  and 
melancholy.  Surrounded  by  these  plains,  this  soli- 
tude, this  silence,  one  understands  the  mystical  na- 
ture of  the  Castilian  people,  the  ardent  faith  of  their 
kings,  the  sacred  inspiration  of  their  poets,  the  di- 
vine ecstasy  of  their  saints,  their  churches,  their 
grand  cloisters,  and  their  glorious  history. 


VALLADOLID. 


VALLADOLID. 


VALLADOLID,  "the  rich,"  as  Quevedo  calls  it,  a 
famous  dispenser  of  colds, — Valladolid,  of  all  the 
cities  lying  north  of  the  Tagus,  was  the  city  which 
I  had  the  liveliest  desire  to  see,  although  I  knew 
that  it  contained  no  grand  artistic  monuments  and 
no  modern  buildings  of  importance.  Its  name,  its 
history,  and  its  character  had  a  peculiar  attraction 
for  me  as  I  had  imagined  them  in  my  own  way  from 
my  knowledge  of  its  inhabitants.  I  expected  that  it 
would  be  a  noble,  cheerful,  and  studious  city,  and  I 
could  not  picture  its  streets  to  my  mind  without 
seeing  Gongora  walking  here  or  Cervantes  there  or 
Leonardo  de  Argensola  yonder,  and  all  the  other 
poets,  historians,  and  scholars  who  dwelt  there  when 
it  was  the  seat  of  the  splendid  court  of  the  monarch. 
And  as  I  thought  of  the  court  I  saw  in  the  vast 
squares  of  this  city,  which  had  so  won  my  heart,  a 
confused  mingling  of  religious  processions,  bull- 
fights, military  parades,  masquerades,  balls — all  the 
mad  merriment  of  the  festival  in  celebration  of  the 
birth  of  Philip  IV.,  from  the  arrival  of  the  English 
admiral  with  his  retinue  of  six  hundred  to  the  final 

VOL.  I.— 9  12SI 


130  VALLADOLID. 

banquet  famous  for  the  twelve  hundred  dishes  of 
meat,  to  repeat  the  popular  tradition,  without  count- 
ing the  plates  of  those  who  were  not  served.  I 
arrived  in  the  night  and  went  to  the  first  hotel, 
when  I  fell  asleep  with  the  delightful  thought  that  I 
should  awake  in  an  unknown  city. 

And  to  awake  in  an  unknown  city  when  one  has 
gone  there  from  choice  is  indeed  a  very  lively 
pleasure.  The  thought  that  from  the  moment  you 
step  out  of  the  house  in  the  morning  until  you  re- 
turn to  it  at  night  you  will  do  nothing  but  pass  from 
curiosity  to  curiosity,  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  that 
everything  you  see  will  seem  new,  and  that  at  every 
step  you  will  be  learning  something,  and  that  all  will 
be  impressed  upon  your  memory  so  long  as  you  live  ; 
that  through  the  livelong  day  you  will  be  as  free  as 
air  and  as  gay  as  a  lark,  without  a  thought  in  the 
world  unless  it  be  to  amuse  yourself,  and  that  by 
amusing  yourself  you  are  at  the  same  time  gaining 
health  of  body,  mind,  and  soul ;  that,  finally,  the 
termination  of  all  these  pleasures,  instead  of  bring- 
ing to  you  a  feeling  of  melancholy,  like  the  evening 
of  a  holiday,  will  be  only  the  beginning  of  another 
company  of  delights,  which  will  attend  you  from 
that  city  to  the  next,  and  from  it  to  a  third,  and  so 
on  as  long  as  your  fancy  is  pleased  not  to  confine 
them  within  bounds, — all  these  thoughts,  I  say, 
which  present  themselves  in  a  crowd  as  soon  as  you 
open  your  eyes,  give  you  such  a  joyful  surprise  that 


Street  in  Valladolid. 


VALLADOLID.  131 

before  you  know  it  you  find  yourself  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  with  your  hat  on  and  the  Guide 
in  your  hands. 

Let  us  go,  then,  to  enjoy  Valladolid. 

Alas !  how  changed  from  the  time  of  Philip  III.  ! 
The  population,  which  was  then  above  one  hundred 
thousand,  has  dwindled  to  less  than  twenty  thousand ; 
in  the  principal  streets  there  is  a  fair  showing  of 
university  students  and  tourists  on  their  way  to  Ma- 
drid; the  other  streets  are  dead.  The  city  makes 
upon  one  the  impression  of  a  great  abandoned  pal- 
ace, where  one  still  sees  traces  of  carving,  gilding, 
and  mosaic,  and  finds  in  some  of  the  central  rooms 
a  few  poor  families  which  reflect  by  their  melancholy 
life  the  vast  solitude  of  the  edifice. 

There  are  many  spacious  squares,  an  old  palace, 
houses  in  ruins,  empty  convents,  long  streets  grass- 
grown  and  deserted ;  in  short,  all  the  appearances  of 
a  great  city  fallen  into  decay.  The  most  beautiful 
part  is  the  Plaza  Mayor,  a  vast  arena,  encircled  all 
around  by  a  portico  supported  by  heavy  columns  of 
bluish  granite,  behind  which  rise  houses,  all  three 
stories  in  height.  In  front  of  the  houses  run  three 
orders  of  terraces  of  great  length,  where  it  is  said 
twenty -four  thousand  people  can  be  conveniently 
seated.  The  portico  extends  along  the  two  sides  of 
a  wide  street  which  opens  into  the  square,  and  here 
and  in  two  or  three  other  adjacent  streets  there  is  a 
great  concourse  of  people.  It  was  market-day : 


132  VALLADOLID. 

under  the  porticoes  and  in  the  square  swarmed  a 
crowd  of  country-folk,  vegetable-sellers,  and  mar- 
ket-men, and,  as  they  speak  Castilian  with  admirable 
purity  of  expression  and  pronunciation  at  Valladolid, 
I  began  to  stroll  about  among  the  baskets  of  lettuce 
and  the  piles  of  oranges,  to  catch  as  I  might  the  bon- 
mots  and  the  cadences  of  that  most  beautiful  lan- 
guage. 

Among  other  things  I  remember  a  curious  proverb 
repeated  by  a  woman  who  was  vexed  beyond  endur- 
ance by  a  young  bully.  "  Sabe  Usted"  she  said, 
planting  herself  before  him,  u  lo  que  es  que  destruyc 
al  hombre  fn  (I  stopped  and  pricked  up  my  ears.) 
"  Tres  muclios  y  trespocos :  mucho  luMcir  y  poco  sa- 
ber ;  mucho  gastar  y  poco  tener;  muclio  presumir  y 
nada  voter"  (Do  you  know,  sir,  what  it  is  that 
ruins  a  man  ?  Three  muckles  and  three  mickles : 
much  talking  and  little  sense ;  much  spending  and 
little  keeping ;  much  presumption  and  no  worth.) 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  perceive  a  great  dif- 
ference between  the  voices  of  these  people  and  those 
of  the  Catalans :  here  they  were  more  liquid  and 
silvery,  and  the  gestures  too  were  livelier  and  the 
expression  of  the  faces  more  animated ;  but  there 
was  nothing  remarkable  about  their  features  and  com- 
plexion, and  in  their  dress  they  differed  very  little 
from  the  peasants  of  Northern  Italy. 

It  was  in  the  square  at  Valladolid  that  it  occurred 
to  me  for  the  first  time  that  I  had  not  seen  a  pipe 


VALLADOLID.  133 

since  I  entered  Spain.  The  laboring-men,  the  peas- 
ants, the  poor,  all  classes,  smoke  the  cigarette,  and 
it  is  ridiculous  to  see  great  strapping  fellows,  with 
long  moustaches,  going  about  Avith  that  little  micro- 
scopic thing  in  their  mouths,  half  hidden  in  their 
beards.  And  they  are  very  careful  to  smoke  it  up 
to  the  very  last  particle  of  tobacco,  until  they  have 
only  a  bit  of  smouldering  ashes  left  on  their  lower 
lip,  and  they  even  cling  to  this  as  though  it  were  a 
drop  of  liquor,  and  finally  they  spit  out  the  ashes 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  making  a  sacrifice. 

Something  else  occurred  to  me  also — a  fact  which 
I  often  observed  afterward  as  long  as  I  remained  in 
Spain  :  I  never  heard  any  whistling. 

From  the  Plaza  Mayor  I  passed  on  to  the  wide, 
cheerful  Plaza  of  San  Pablo,  where  is  the  ancient 
royal  palace.  The  fagade  is  not  remarkable  either 
for  grandeur  or  beauty.  I  entered  the  doorway,  and 
before  I  could  feel  a  sense  of  admiration  for  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  hall  I  felt  only  sadness  at  the  sepul- 
chral silence  which  reigned  in  it.  Nothing  else  pro- 
duces the  impression  made  upon  one  by  a  cemetery 
so  closely  as  does  an  abandoned  castle,  for  there  es- 
pecially, to  a  greater  extent  than  in  other  places, 
the  contrast  is  very  strong  and  sharp  between  the  re- 
membrance of  what  has  been  and  the  actual  condi- 
tion in  which  one  finds  it.  Alas  for  the  supurb  reti- 
nue of  plumed  cavaliers !  Alas  for  the  splendid 
feasts,  the  fervid  enjoyment  of  a  prosperity  which 


134  VALLADOLTD. 

seemed  eternal !  It  is  a  novel  pleasure — that  of 
coughing  a  little  in  front  of  those  hollow  sepulchres, 
as  invalids  sometimes  cough  to  test  their  strength, 
and  of  hearing  the  echo  of  your  lusty  voice,  which 
assures  you  that  you  are  young  and  hearty.  On  the 
inside  of  the  palace  there  is  a  court  of  generous  size 
surrounded  by  busts  of  the  Roman  emperors  in  demi- 
relief,  a  beautiful  staircase,  and  wide  galleries  on 
the  upper  stories.  I  coughed  and  the  echo  answered, 
"  What  health  !"  and  I  went  out  comforted. 

A  drowsy  porter  showed  me  another  palace  in  the 
same  square  which  I  had  overlooked,  and  told  me 
that  in  it  was  born  the  great  king  Philip  II.,  from 
whom  Valladolid  had  received  the  title  of  a  city. 
"  You  know,  sir,  Philip  II.,  son  of  Charles  V.,  father 
of" — "I  know,  I  know,"  I  hastened  to  reply  to 
save  the  narration,  and,  casting  a  gloomy  glance  at 
the  gloomy  palace,  I  passed  on. 

Opposite  to  the  royal  palace  is  the  Dominican 
convent  of  San  Pablo,  with  a  facade  of  the  Gothic 
order  so  richly  and  extravagantly  ornamented  with 
statuettes,  bas-reliefs,  and  traceries  of  every  sort 
that  one  half  of  them  would  amply  adorn  an  immense 
palace.  At  that  moment  the  sun  was  shining  on  it, 
and  the  effect  was  magnificent.  While  I  stood  con- 
templating at  my  ease  that  labyrinth  of  sculpture, 
from  which  it  seems  one's  eye  will  never  turn  when 
once  it  has  become  fixed  upon  it,  a  little  rogue,  six 
or  eight  years  old,  who  had  been  sitting  in  a  distant 


VALLADOLID.  135 

corner  of  the  square,  rushed  from  his  place  as  though 
he  had  been  thrown  from  a  sling,  and  ran  toward  me, 
crying  in  an  affectionate,  plaintive  tone,  "  Senorito  ! 
Senorito  !  I  like  you  so  much  !" 

This  is  something  new,  I  thought,  for  the  rag- 
amuffins to  make  declarations  of  love.  He  came 
and  stood  in  front  of  me,  and  I  asked,  "  Why  do 
you  love  me  ?" 

"  Because,"  he  answered  frankly,  "  you  will  give 
me  alms." 

"  And  why  should  I  give  you  alms  ?" 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  hesitating,  and  then  reso- 
lutely, in  the  tones  of  one  who  has  found  a  good 
reason — "  because,  sir,  you  have  a  book." 

The  Guide  which  I  held  under  my  arm  !  But,  you 
see,  one  must  travel  to  learn  these  new  things.  I 
carried  a  Guide,  foreigners  carry  Guides ;  foreigners 
give  alms ;  therefore  I  ought  to  give  him  alms ;  all 
this  reasoning  instead  of  saying,  "  I  am  hungry  !" 

I  was  pleased  by  the  plausibility  of  this  dis- 
covery, and  dropped  into  the  hands  of  this  profound 
boy  the  few  ciiartos  which  I  found  in  my  pockets. 

Turning  into  a  street  near  by,  I  saw  the  fa§ade 
of  the  Dominican  college  of  San  Gregorio, 
Gothic  in  its  architecture,  and  more  dignified  and 
richer  than  the  convent  of  San  Pablo.  Then  I  went 
from  street  to  street  until  I  came  to  the  square  of 
the  cathedral.  At  the  point  where  the  street  widens 
into  the  square  I  met  a  very  graceful  little  Spanish 


136  VALLADOL1D. 

lady,  to  whom  I  might  have  applied  those  two  verses 
of  Espronceda: 

"  Y  que  yo  la  he  de  querer 
For  su  paso  de  andadura," 

or  that  line  of  ours,  "  She  walks  not  like  a  mortal 
thing,"  for  in  their  gait  lies  the  supreme  grace  of 
the  Spanish  women.  She  had  in  her  walk  those 
thousand  fugitive  little  friskings  and  easy  undulating 
motions  which  the  eye  cannot  follow  one  by  one,  nor 
the  memory  retain,  nor  words  express,  but  which, 
taken  altogether,  form  the  most  feminine  of  woman's 
charms.  Here  I  found  myself  in  an  embarrassing 
position.  I  saw  the  great  mass  of  the  cathedral 
looming  up  at  the  end  of  the  square,  and  curiosity 
prompted  me  to  look  at  it ;  but  a  few  feet  in  front 
of  me  I  saw  this  little  person,  and  a  curiosity  not 
less  lively  constrained  me  to  look  at  her ;  and  so,  as 
I  did  not  wish  to  lose  the  first  glimpse  of  the  church 
nor  the  fleeting  sight  of  the  woman,  my  glances 
ran  from  her  face  to  the  dome  and  from  the  dome 
to  her  face  with  such  breathless  rapidity  that  the 
fair  unknown  must  have  certainly  thought  that  I  had 
discovered  a  correspondence  of  line  or  some  mysteri- 
ous bond  of  sympathy  between  the  building  and  her- 
self, for  she  also  turned  and  looked  at  the  church, 
and  smiled  as  she  passed  me. 

The    cathedral    of    Valladolid,    although     it    is 
unfinished,  is  one  of  the  largest  cathedrals  in  Spain. 


VALLADOLID.  137 

It  is  an  imposing  mass  of  granite,  and  produces 
upon  the  mind  of  the  incredulous  an  effect  similar  to 
that  produced  by  the  church  of  the  Pillar  at  Sara- 
gossa.  On  first  entering  one  flies  in  thought  to  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Peter's.  Architectually,  it  is  dig- 
nified and  simple,  and  receives  a  sombre  reflection 
from  the  dark  color  of  the  stone.  The  walls  are 
bare,  the  chapels  dark,  the  arched  columns,  the 
doors,  and  everything  gigantic  and  severe.  It  is 
one  of  those  cathedrals  which  make  one  stammer 
out  his  prayers  with  a  sense  of  secret  dread.  I  had 
not  yet  seen  the  Escurial,  but  I  thought  of  it.  It 
was,  in  fact,  designed  by  the  same  architect.  The 
church  was  left  unfinished,  so  that  the  work  of 
building  the  convent  might  be  carried  on,  and  on 
visiting  the  convent  one  is  reminded  of  the  church. 

In  a  little  chapel  to  the  right  of  the  great  altar 
rises  the  tomb  of  Pedro  Ansurez,  a  gentleman  and 
benefactor  of  Valladolid,  whose  sword  has  been 
placed  above  his  monument.  I  was  alone  in  the 
church  and  heard  the  echoing  of  my  footsteps. 
Suddenly  a  keen  sense  of  fear  seized  me  and  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  childish  fright:  I  turned 
my  back  upon  the  tomb  and  went  out. 

As  I  was  going  out  I  met  a  priest  and  asked 
where  the  house  of  Cervantes  was.  He  answered 
that  it  was  in  the  street  of  Cervantes,  and  pointed 
out  the  way  I  ought  to  take.  I  thanked  him,  and 
he  asked  me  if  I  was  a  stranger;  I  said  I  was. 


138  VALLADOLID. 

"From  Italy?" 

"  Yes,  from  Italy." 

He  scanned  me  from  head  to  foot,  raised  his  hat, 
and  went  on  his  way  down  the  street.  I  too  started 
off,  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  the  thought  came 
to  me :  "  I'll  wager  that  he  has  stopped  to  see  how 
one  of  the  Pope's  prison-keepers  is  made."  I  looked 
back,  and  there  he  was,  sure  enough,  standing  stock 
still  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  staring  at  me  with 
all  his  eyes.  I  could  not  keep  from  laughing,  so  I 
excused  my  amusement  with  the  salutation,  "Beso 
a  usted  la  mano  /"  (I  give  you  my  hand),  and 
he  called  back,  "  Buenos  dias  /"  (Good-day),  and 
was  off.  But  he  ought  to  have  added,  not  with- 
out surprise,  that  for  an  Italian  I  had  not  such  a 
villainous  face,  after  all.  I  crossed  two  or  three 
quiet,  narrow  streets,  and  entered  the  street  of 
Cervantes,  a  long,  straight,  dirty  thoroughfare  lined 
with  wretched  houses.  I  walked  along  it  for  some 
distance  without  meeting  anybody  but  some  sol- 
diers and  servants-girls  and  an  occasional  mule,  my 
eyes  busily  scanning  the  walls  for  the  inscription, 
"  A  qui  vivio  Cervantes,"  etc.  ("  Here  lived  Cer- 
vantes," etc.).  But  I  found  nothing.  On  reaching 
the  end  of  the  street  I  found  myself  in  the  open 
country.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight.  I  stood 
a  while  to  look  around,  and  then  I  retraced  my  steps. 
I  happened  to  meet  a  muleteer  and  asked  him, 
"  Where  is  the  house  in  which  Cervantes  lived  ?" 


VALLADOLID.  139 

The  only  answer  he  gave  me  was  a  blow  for  the 
mule  as  he  went  on  his  way.  I  questioned  a  soldier : 
he  sent  me  to  a  shop.  In  the  shop  I  questioned  an 
old  woman.  She  did  not  understand,  and,  believing 
that  I  wished  to  buy  a  copy  of  Don  Quixote,  sent  me 
to  a  book-store.  The  bookseller,  who  wanted  to  play 
the  wiseacre  and  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  confess 
that  he  knew  nothing  about  the  house  of  Cervantes, 
began  to  beat  about  the  bush,  talking  of  the  life  and 
works  of  that  "  marvellously  great  writer ;"  so  that, 
to  cap  the  climax,  I  went  off  about  my  own  affairs, 
without  seeing  anything.  However,  the  memory  of 
this  house  must  be  preserved  (and  no  doubt  if  I  had 
searched  more  diligently  I  should  have  been  success- 
ful), not  only  because  Cervantes  lived  in  it,  but  be- 
cause an  act  was  committed  there  which  all  of  his 
biographers  mention.  One  night,  a  short  time  after 
the  birth  of  Philip  II.,  a  cavalier  of  the  court  hap- 
pened to  meet  an  unknown  man,  and  for  some  un- 
known reason  high  words  were  passed  between 
them :  both  drew  their  swords  and  fell  to  fighting, 
and  the  cavalier  was  mortally  wounded.  The  other 
disappeared.  The  wounded  man,  all  drenched  with 
blood,  ran  to  a  neighboring  house  to  find  succor.  In 
the  house  lived  Cervantes  with  his  family,  together 
with  a  widow  of  a  famous  chronicler  and  her  two 
sons.  One  of  them  ran  and  lifted  the  wounded  man 
from  the  ground  and  called  Cervantes,  who  was 
already  in  bed.  Cervantes  got  up  and  helped  his 


140  VALLADOLID. 

friend  carry  the  cavalier  into  the  widow's  house, 
where  he  died  two  days  later.  Justice  took  a  hand 
in  the  case  and  sought  to  ferret  out  the  cause  of  the 
duel.  It  was  believed  that  the  combatants  were 
both  paying  court  to  the  daughter  or  niece  of  Cer- 
vantes. The  entire  family  were  cast  into  prison. 
Shortly  afterward  they  were  set  at  liberty,  and  noth- 
ing more  was  heard  of  it.  But  even  this  had  to 
befall  the  poor  author  of  Don  Quixote,  so  that  he 
might  truly  say  that  he  had  experienced  every 
misfortune. 

In  this  same  street  of  Cervantes  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  witness  a  scene  which  repaid  me  a  thou- 
sand times  for  not  finding  the  house.  As  I  passed  a 
door  I  spied  a  little  Castilian  girl  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years,  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  I  cannot 
find  words  sufficiently  delicate  and  refined  to  describe 
what  she  was  doing.  A  childish  curiosity  to  know 
the  delight  of  mother-love  had  softly  tempted  her. 
The  buttons  of  her  little  bodice  had  been  slowly 
slipped  through  the  button-holes  one  by  one  under 
the  pressure  of  a  trembling  finger.  She  was  alone ; 
there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  street ;  she  had  hidden 
her  hand  in  her  bosom  ;  then  perhaps  she  stood  a 
moment  in  doubt,  but,  glancing  at  the  baby  and  feel- 
ing her  courage  renewed,  and  making  a  final  effort 
with  the  hidden  hand,  she  uncovered  her  breast  as 
well  as  she  could,  and,  opening  the  chubby  lips  of 


VALLADOLID.  141 

the  baby  with  her  thumb  and  finger,  she  said  ten- 
derly, " Hela  aqui"  (Here  it  is),  her  face  glowing 
and  a  sweet  smile  in  her  eyes.  Hearing  my  step, 
she  gave  a  cry  and  disappeared. 

Instead  of  the  house  of  Cervantes  I  found,  a  little 
farther  along,  the  house  in  which  was  born  Jos£  Zor- 
rilla,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  Spanish  poets  of 
our  time,  who  is  still  living,  but  must  not  be  mis- 
taken, as  many  in  Italy  do  mistake  him,  for  Zorilla 
the  radical  leader,  although  he  too  has  some  poetry 
in  his  head  and  scatters  it  with  a  liberal  hand  through 
his  political  speeches,  supplementing  it  with  bursts 
of  eloquence  and  furious  gestures.  In  my  opinion 
Jose'  Zorrilla  is  to  Spanish  letters  a  little  more  than 
Prati  is  to  our  Italian  literature,  and  the  two  have 
many  points  of  similarity — religious  feeling/  passion, 
productiveness,  spontaneity,  and  a  certain  indefinable 
quality,  vague  and  daring,  which  fires  the  youthful 
fancy.  Zorrilla  has  a  way  of  reading  in  resonant, 
solemn  tones,  it  is  said,  somewhat  monotonous,  and 
yet  many  Spaniards  rave  over  it.  In  form  I  should 
say  the  Spanish  poet  is  more  correct ;  they  are  both 
prolix,  and  in  each  there  is  the  germ  of  a  great  poet. 
Admirable  above  every  other  work  of  Zorrilla  are 
his  "  Songs  of  the  Troubadour,"  narrative  poems  and 
legends,  full  of  the  tenderest  love-lyrics  and  descrip- 
tions of  incomparable  beauty.  He  has  written  also 
for  the  stage.  His  Don  Juan  Tenario,  an  ideal 
drama,  in  eight-line  rhymed  stanzas,  is  one  of  the 


142  VALLADOLID. 

most  popular  dramatic  operas  of  Spain.  It  is  per- 
formed once  a  year  on  All  Souls'  Day  with  great 
magnificence,  and  the  people  crowd  to  the  perform- 
ance as  they  would  to  a  festival.  Some  of  the  lyrics 
scattered  through  the  drama  run  through  the  speech 
of  all,  and  especially  is  this  true  of  Don  Juan's  dec- 
laration to  his  love,  whom  he  has  stolen  away  ;  which 
is  one  of  the  gentlest,  tenderest,  and  most  ardent  ex- 
pressions that  could  possibly  fall  from  the  lips  of  an 
enamored  youth  in  the  most  impetuous  burst  of 
passion.  I  am  confident  that  the  coldest  of  men 
could  not  read  these  lines  without  a  thrill.  The 
woman's  answer  is  possibly  even  stronger :  "  Don 
Juan  !  Don  Juan  !  I  implore  thee,  of  thy  noble  com- 
passion, rend  my  heart  or  love  me,  for  I  adore  thee  !" 
Let  some  fair  Andalusian  repeat  these  lines  and  see 
if  you  do  not  appreciate  them ;  or,  if  this  be  im- 
possible in  your  case,  read  the  ballad  called  "  La 
Pasionaria,"  which  is  rather  long,  but  full  of  affec- 
tion and  an  entrancing  melancholy.  I  cannot  think 
of  it  without  my  eyes  filling  with  tears.  I  always 
see  the  two  lovers,  Aurora  and  Felice,  in  the  flush 
of  youth,  alone  at  the  close  of  day  in  the  deserted 
fields,  going  their  opposite  ways,  turning  at  every 
step,  waving  good-bye,  and  never  satisfied  with  gaz- 
ing back  at  each  other.  The  lines  are  what  the 
Spanish  call  asonantcs  (unrhymed),  but  so  composed 
and  arranged  that  the  penult  of  each  line,  equal  or 
unequal,  is  accented  and  always  has  the  same  vowel. 


VALLADOLID.  143 

This  is  the  most  popular  verse  in  Spain — the  verse 
of  the  RomancerOj  in  which  very  many  can  impro- 
vise with  surprising  facility ;  nor  is  a  foreigner  able 
to  perceive  all  its  harmony  unless  his  ear  has  been 
trained. 

"  May  I  see  the  picture-gallery  ?" 

"  Why  not,  caballerito  ?"  The  portress  opened 
the  door  of  the  Colegio  de  Santa  Cruz,  and  followed 
me  inside.  There  are  many  paintings,  but  besides 
some  by  Rubens,  Mascagni,  Cardenas,  Vincenzo  Car- 
duccio,  the  rest  of  them  are  of  very  slight  merit, 
gathered  together  from  convents  here  and  there, 
and  hung  at  random  in  the  rooms,  along  the 
corridors,  staircases,  and  galleries.  None  the  less, 
it  is  a  museum  which  leaves  upon  the  mind  a  pro- 
found impression,  not  very  unlike  that  produced  by 
one's  first  sight  of  a  bull-fight ;  in  fact,  it  is  more  than 
six  months  since  that  day,  and  yet  the  impression 
is  still  as  distinct  as  though  it  was  made  only  a  few 
hours  ago.  The  gloomiest,  the  bloodiest,  the  most 
horrid  work  from  the  brushes  of  the  finest  Spanish 
painters  are  found  there.  Imagine  gaping  wounds, 
mutilated  limbs,  heads  severed  from  the  trunks, 
ghastly  corpses,  bodies  that  have  been  bruised,  torn 
asunder,  racked  with  the  cruelest  tortures  you  have 
found  described  in  the  romances  of  Guerrazzi  or  in 
the  History  of  the  Inquisition,  and  you  will  have 
formed  an  adequate  idea  of  the  gallery  of  Valladolid. 
You  pass  from  room  to  room  and  see  only  faces  dis- 


144  VALLADOLTD. 

torted  by  death,  faces  of  the  dying,  of  demoniacs, 
of  executioners,  and  on  every  side  blood,  blood, 
blood !  until  you  seem  to  see  blood  spurting  from 
the  walls  and  feel  as  though  you  were  wading  in  it, 
like  Father  Bresciani's  Babette  in  the  prisons  of 
Naples.  It  is  a  collection  of  woes  and  horrors  enough 
to  fill  to  overflowing  all  the  hospitals  in  the  country. 

At  first  one  feels  a  sense  of  sadness,  then  a 
shudder  of  abhorrence,  and  finally  far  more  than 
abhorrence — indignation  against  the  butcher-artists 
who  have  so  shamelessly  debased  the  art  of  Raphael 
and  Murillo. 

The  most  noticeable  painting  which  I  saw,  among 
the  many  bad  ones,  although  it  too  was  a  cruel 
Spanish  realism,  was  a  picture  representing  the 
circumcision  of  Jesus,  with  all  the  most  minute 
details  of  the  instruments  and  the  operation,  and  a 
circle  of  spectators  standing  motionless  with  bowed 
heads,  like  the  students  of  a  surgical  clinic  around 
their  chief. 

"  Let  us  go  !  let  us  go !"  I  said  to  the  courteous 
portress ;  "  if  I  stay  here  half  an  hour  longer  I 
shall  be  burned,  flayed,  or  quartered.  Have  you 
nothing  more  cheerful  to  show  me  ?" 

She  took  me  to  see  Rubens'  "  Assumption,"  a 
grand,  effective  painting  which  would  look  well 
above  a  great  altar — a  majestic,  radiant  Virgin, 
ascending  to  heaven,  and  around  her,  above  and 
below,  a  host  of  angelic  faces,  wreaths  of  flowers, 


VALLADOLID.  145 

golden  hair,  white  wings,  waving  pinions,  and  dan- 
cing sunbeams.  It  is  all  tremulous,  and  pierces  the 
air  and  soars  upward  like  a  flock  of  doves,  so  that 
it  seems  from  moment  to  moment  that  the  whole 
scene  ought  to  rise  and  disappear. 

But  it  was  not  ordered  that  I  should  leave  the 
museum  with  a  pleasant  picture  before  my  eyes. 
The  portress  opened  a  door  and  with  a  laugh  bade 
me  enter.  I  entered,  and  turned  back  in  fright. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  fallen  upon  a  madhouse 
of  giants.  The  vast  room  was  full  of  colossal 
statues  of  painted  wood  which  represented  the 
drama  of  the  Passion — soldiers,  jailers,  and  spec- 
tators, each  in  the  attitude  befitting  his  office,  some 
in  the  act  .of  scourging,  others  binding  the  crimi- 
nals, others  smiting,  and  wagging  their  heads — 
horrid  faces  horribly  distorted,  a  few  kneeling 
women,  Jesus  nailed  to  an  enormous  cross,  the 
thieves,  the  ladder,  the  instruments  of  torture, — in 
short,  everything  one  could  think  of  to  represent 
the  Passion  as  it  was  once  portrayed  in  the  square, 
with  a  group  of  these  huge  statues  which  must  have 
required  as  much  room  as  a  house.  And  here  too 
were  wounds,  heads  dripping  with  blood,  and  gashes 
enough  to  sicken  you. 

"  See  that  Judas  there  ?"  said  the  woman  as  she 
pointed  out  one  of  the  statues — a  gallows  face  which 
I  shall  dream  of  sometimes.  "  When  they  arranged 
the  groups  outside,  they  had  to  take  it  down,  it  was 

VOL.  I.— 10 


146  VALLADOLID. 

so  ugly  and  sad.  The  people  hated  it  like  death, 
and  wanted  to  break  it  to  pieces,  and  as  there  was 
always  such  a  great  to-do  to  guard  it  and  to  keep 
their  threats  from  becoming  deeds,  it  was  decided 
to  form  the  groups  without  it."  The  most  beautiful 
statue,  to  my  eyes,  was  a  Madonna,  the  work  of 
Berruguete,  Juan  de  Juni,  or  Hernandez — I  do  not 
know  which,  for  they  all  three  have  statues  there. 
She  was  kneeling  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her 
eyes  turned  toward  heaven  with  an  expression  of 
such  passionate  sorrow  that  one  is  moved  to  pity  as 
though  the  statue  were  a  living  person ;  and,  in 
fact,  a  few  steps  distant  it  seems  to  be  alive,  so  that 
on  seeing  it  suddenly  one  cannot  check  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise. 

"  The  English,"  said  the  portress  (for  the 
cicerones  repeat  the  opinions  of  the  English  as  a 
confirmation  of  their  own,  and  sometimes  attribute 
to  them  the  most  tiresome  extravagances), — u  the 
English  say  that  only  words  are  lacking." 

I  joyfully  assented  to  the  opinion  of  the  English, 
gave  the  portress  the  customary  reales,  and,  taking 
my  departure  with  a  head  full  of  sanguinary  images, 
hailed  the  cheerful  sky  with  an  unwonted  feeling  of 
pleasure,  like  a  young  student  leaving  the  dissecting- 
room  where  he  has  been  assisting  at  his  first  autopsy. 

I  visited  the  beautiful  palace  of  the  University, 
La  Plaza  Campo  Grande,  where  the  Holy  Inquisition 
kindled  its  fagots — a  wide,  cheerful  square,  sur- 


VALLADOLID.  147 

rounded  by  fifteen  convents.  I  went  to  see  a  church 
adorned  with  famous  paintings,  and  then  my  brain 
began  to  confuse  the  images  of  the  things  I  had  seen. 
I  slipped  the  guide-book  into  my  pocket  and  took 
my  way  toward  the  great  square.  I  did  the  same 
thing  in  all  the  other  cities,  for  when  the  mind 
becomes  tired  it  may  be  a  good  sign  of  constancy  to 
force  one's  attention  in  deference  to  that  mistaken 
idea  of  following  the  guide-book,  but  it  is  a  danger- 
ous practice  for  one  who  is  travelling  with  the  inten- 
tion of  afterward  telling  the  impressions  of  what  he 
had  seen.  For  one  cannot  remember  everything, 
and  it  is  better  not  to  confuse  the  vivid  remembrances 
of  the  principal  objects  with  a  crowd  of  vague  recol- 
lections of  things  of  less  account.  Moreover,  one 
never  has  pleasant  recollections  of  a  city  where  he 
has  used  his  head  for  a  storehouse. 

To  see  how  the  city  appeared  in  the  evening  I 
took  a  walk  under  the  porticoes,  where  they  were 
beginning  to  light  up  the  shops,  and  there  was  a  con- 
tinual passing  of  soldiers,  students,  and  girls,  who 
disappeared  through  the  little  passages,  darted  be- 
tween the  columns,  and  glided  here  and  there  to 
escape  the  eager  hands  of  their  pursuers,  who  were 
enveloped  in  their  flowing  capes ;  a  troop  of  boys 
were  romping  about  the  square,  filling  the  air  with 
their  sonorous  cries :  and  everywhere  there  were 
groups  of  caballeros,  among  whom  one  occasionally 
heard  the  names  Serrano,  Sagasta,  and  Amadeus 


148  VALLADOLTD. 

alternating  with  the  words  justicia,  libertad,  traicion, 
honra  de  Espana,  and  the  like.  I  entered  a  very 
large  cafe'  which  was  full  of  students,  and  there  sat- 
isfied the  natural  talent  of  eating  and  drinking,  as  a 
refined  writer  would  say.  Then,  as  I  had  a  great 
desire  to  talk,  I  noticed  two  students  who  were  sip- 
ping their  coffee  and  milk  at  a  neighboring  table,  and 
without  any  introduction  I  addressed  one  of  them — 
a  very  natural  thing  to  do  in  Spain,  where  one  is 
always  sure  of  receiving  a  courteous  response.  The 
two  students  came  over,  and,  as  every  one  may  im- 
agine, we  discussed  the  absorbing  subjects  of  Italy, 
Amadeus,  the  university,  Cervantes,  the  Andalusian 
women,  balls,  Dante,  travels ;  in  short,  it  was  a 
course  in  the  geography,  the  literary  history,  and  the 
customs  of  the  two  countries  ;  then  a  glass  of  Malaga 
and  a  friendly  hand-clasp. 

O  caballeros  of  happy  memory,  comrades  in  every 
cafe*,  companions  at  all  the  hotel  tables,  near  neigh- 
bors in  every  theatre,  fellow-travellers  on  all  the 
railway-trains  in  Spain !  who  so  often,  moved  by 
gentle  pity  for  an  unknown  stranger,  scanning  with 
sad  eyes  the  railway-guide  or  the  Correspondence 
Espanola,  thinking  of  his  family,  his  friends,  his  dis- 
tant country, — who  with  generous  impulse  have 
offered  him  the  cigarette  and  drawn  him  into  conver- 
sation ;  who  have  broken  the  course  of  his  gloomy 
thoughts  and  have  calmed  and  cheered  him, — I 
thank  you,  caballeros  of  happy  memory,  whoever 


VALLADOLID.  149 

you  may  be,  Carlists  or  Alphonsists  or  Amadeists  or 
Liberals — from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  thank  you 
in  the  name  of  all  Italians  who  are  travelling  or  who 
will  travel  in  your  dear  country;  and  I  swear  on 
the  eternal  volume  of  Miguel  Cervantes  that  when- 
ever I  hear  your  highly-civilized  European  brothers 
condemning  your  fierce  nature  and  savage  manners, 
I  will  rise  in  your  defence  with  the  fire  of  an  Anda- 
lusian  and  the  constancy  of  a  Catalan  so  long  as  I 
have  the  strength  to  cry,  "  Long  live  hospitality !" 
A  few  hours  later  I  found  myself  in  the  carriage 
of  a  train  bound  for  Madrid ;  the  starting  whistle 
was  still  sounding  when  I  clapped  my  hand  to  my 
forehead.  Alas  !  it  was  too  late  !  I  had  been  to  Val- 
ladolid  and  had  forgotten  to  visit  the  room  where 
Christopher  Columbus  died ! 


MADRID. 


MADRID. 


IT  was  day  when  one  of  my  companions  shouted 
"  Caballero  !"  in  ray  ear. — "  Are  we  at  Madrid  ?"  I 
asked  as  I  awoke. — "  Not  yet,"  was  the  answer,  "  but 
look  !"  I  turned  toward  the  country  and  saAv,  half  a 
mile  away  on  the  side  of  a  high  mountain,  the  con- 
vent of  the  Escurial  illuminated  by  the  first  rays  of 
the  sun.  "  The  grandest  of  the  grand  things  on  the 
earth  " — as  it  has  been  called  by  an  illustrious  trav- 
eller— did  not  seem  to  me  at  first  sight  that  immense 
edifice  which  the  Spaniards  consider  "  the  eighth 
wonder  of  the  world."  However,  I  uttered  my 
"  Oh  !"  like  the  other  travellers  who  then  saw  it  for 
the  first  time,  reserving  all  my  admiration  for  the 
day  when  I  should  see  it  near  at  hand.  From  the 
Escurial  to  Madrid  the  railroad  crosses  a  barren 
plain  which  reminds  one  of  the  country  around 
Rome. 

"  Have  you  never  seen  Madrid  ?"  asked  my  neigh- 
bor. I  replied  that  I  had  not. 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  the  good  Spaniard,  turn- 
ing to  look  at  me  with  a  air  of  curiosity,  as  though 
he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  Let  us  see  what  sort  of 

153 


154  MADRID. 

a  creature  a  man  is  who  never  saw  Madrid."  Then 
he  began  to  enumerate  the  grand  things  that  I  should 
see  :  "  What  walks  !  what  cafe's  !  what  theatres  ! 
what  women !  If  one  has  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars to  spend,  there  is  nothing  better  than  Madrid ; 
it  is  a  great  monster  that  lives  on  fortunes.  If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  should  take  pleasure  in  thrust- 
ing my  fortune  also  down  its  throat." 

I  felt  for  my  flabby  pocket-book  and  murmured, 
"  Poor  monster !" 

"  Here  we  are  !"  cried  the  Spaniard.     "  Look !" 

I  put  my  head  out  of  the  window. 

"  That  is  the  royal  palace." 

I  saw  an  immense  pile  on  an  eminence,  but  shut 
my  eyes  quickly,  for  the  sun  was  shining  in  my  face. 
Everybody  got  out,  and  then  commenced  the  cus- 
tomary bustling 

"  Of  cloaks  and  shawls  and  other  rags" 

which  almost  always  shuts  out  the  first  view  of  the 
city.  The  train  stopped,  and  I  alighted  to  find  my- 
self in  a  square  full  of  coupe's  surrounded  by  a  clam- 
orous crowd.  A  hundred  hands  are  extended  for  my 
valise,  a  hundred  mouths  shout  in  my  ear;  it  is  a 
devilish  pack  of  porters,  cabbies,  cicerones,  hotel- 
clerks,  guards,  and  boys.  I  elbow  my  way  through 
them,  jump  on  an  omnibus  full  of  people,  and  am  off. 
We  go  down  an  avenue,  cross  a  great  square,  turn 


Royal  Palace,  Madrid. 


MADRID.  155 

into  a  long  straight  street,  and  arrive  at  the  Puerta 
del  Sol. 

It  is  a  stupendous  sight !  A  semicircular  square 
of  vast  extent,  surrounded  by  high  buildings,  at  the 
mouth  of  ten  great  streets  like  so  many  torrents, 
from  every  one  of  which  pours  a  continuous  roaring 
flood  of  people  and  of  vehicles.  Everything  one 
sees  is  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the.  place : 
sidewalks  as  wide  as  streets,  cafe's  as  wide  as  squares, 
a  fountain  the  size  of  a  lake — on  every  side  a  dense, 
rapidly-shifting  crowd,  a  discordant  roar,  a  subtle 
air  of  cheerfulness  and  gaiety  in  the  faces,  the  ges- 
tures, and  the  colors,  which  makes  one  feel  that 
neither  the  people  nor  the  city  is  entirely  strange, 
and  gives  one  an  insane  desire  to  join  in  the  uproar, 
to  salute  everybody,  to  run  here  and  there,  as  if  one 
were  revisiting  those  sights  and  people  rather  than 
seeing  them  for  the  first  time.  I  enter  a  hotel,  and 
leave  it  immediately,  and  begin  to  wander  at  random 
through  the  city.  There  are  no  grand  palaces,  no 
ancient  monuments  of  art,  but  wide,  clean,  cheerful 
streets,  flanked  by  houses  painted  in  lively  colors, 
and  interrupted  by  open  squares  of  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent forms,  as  though  they  have  been  dropped  here 
and  there  by  chance,  and  in  every  square  there  is  a 
garden,  a  fountain,  and  a  statuette.  Some  streets 
run  up  hill  in  such  a  manner  that  on  turning  into 
them  one  sees  the  sky  at  the  end,  and  one  imagines 
that  they  open  into  the  country,  but  when  one  has 


156  MADRID. 

reached  the  top  another  long  street  stretches  off  as 
far  as  one  can  see. 

Every  little  while  there  are  crossways  where  five, 
six,  and  even  eight  streets  meet,  and  here  there  is  a 
continuous  stream  of  carriages  and  people  passing 
each  other.  The  walls  are  covered  for  long  spaces 
with  show-bills  and  placards ;  in  the  shops  there  is 
an  incessant  coming  and  going;  the  cafe's  are 
crowded ;  everywhere  there  is  the  rush  of  a  great 
city.  Alcala  (Castle)  Street,  so  wide  that  it  looks 
like  a  rectangular  square,  cuts  Madrid  in  half  from 
the  Puerta  del  Sol  eastward,  and  ends  in  a  vast  park 
which  extends  all  along  one  side  of  the  city  and 
contains  gardens,  promenades,  open  squares,  theatres, 
bull-rings,  triumphal  arches,  museums,  palaces,  and 
fountains. 

I  jumped  into  a  carriage,  saying  to  the  driver, 
"  Where  you  will."  Past  the  statue  of  Murillo,  up 
Alcala  Street,  down  the  Street  of  the  Turk,  where 
General  Prim  was  assassinated ;  across  the  square 
of  the  Cortes,  where  stands  the  statue  of  Miguel 
Cervantes ;  through  the  Plaza  Mayor,  where  blazed 
the  fires  lighted  by  the  Inquisition ;  and  then  back 
again,  past  the  house  of  Lope  de  Vega,  out  into  the 
vast  Plaza  del  Oriente,  which  stretches  in  front  of 
the  royal  palace,  where  towers  the  equestrian  statue 
of  Philip  IV.  in  the  midst  of  an  oval  garden  sur- 
rounded by  forty  colossal  statues — climbing  up 
toward  the  centre  of  the  city,  across  other  wide 


MADRID.  157 

streets  and  cheerful  squares,  and  crossways  thronged 
with  people,  until  finally  I  return  to  the  hotel, 
declaring  that  Madrid  is  rich,  grand,  gay,  populous, 
and  attractive,  and  that  I  am  going  to  see  it  all,  and 
stay  and  enjoy  it  so  long  as  my  account-book  and 
the  mildness  of  the  season  will  permit. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  a  good  friend  found 
me  a  casa  de  huespedes,  a  guest-house,  and  I  in- 
stalled myself  there.  These  guest-houses  are  noth- 
ing else  than  the  homes  of  families  who  give  board 
and  lodging  to  students,  artists,  and  foreigners  at 
prices  which  vary,  understand,  according  to  the 
manner  in  which  you  choose  to  eat  and  sleep,  but 
which  are  always  lower  than  the  hotel  rates,  with 
the  inestimable  advantage  of  breathing  the  air  of 
home-life,  forming  friendships,  and  being  treated  as 
a  member  of  the  family  rather  than  as  a  boarder. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  was  a  pleasant  lady  on  the 
hither  side  of  fifty,  the  widow  of  a  painter  who  had 
studied  at  Rome,  Florence,  and  Naples,  and  who 
had  all  his  life  cherished  a  grateful  and  affectionate 
remembrance  of  Italy.  She  too,  as  was  natural, 
displayed  a  very  lively  sympathy  toward  our 
country,  and  manifested  it  by  joining  me  every  day 
at  dinner,  when  she  would  recount  the  life,  death, 
and  miraculous  doings  of  all  her  relatives  and  friends, 
as  though  I  was  the  only  confidant  she  had  in 
Madrid.  I  met  few  Spaniards  who  spoke  so  rapidly, 
so  frankly,  and  with  such  an  easy  flow  of  phrases, 


158  MADRID. 

bon-mots,  similes,  proverbs,  and  expressions.  At 
first  this  disconcerted  me,  for  I  understood  little  and 
was  every  moment  obliged  to  ask  her  to  repeat ;  nor 
was  I  always  able  to  make  myself  understood.  In 
a  word,  it  was  impressed  upon  me  that  in  studying 
the  language  of  the  books  I  had  wasted  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  storing  my  memory  with  words  and 
phrases  which  are  seldom  used  in  ordinary  conver- 
sation, while,  on  the  other  hand,  I  had  neglected 
very  many  other  forms  of  speech  which  are  indis- 
pensable. I  was  obliged,  therefore,  to  begin  again, 
to  rally  my  forces,  to  make  notes,  and,  above  all, 
to  keep  my  ear  always  on  the  qui  vive,  so  that  I 
might  profit  as  much  as  possible  by  the  speech  of 
the  people.  And  I  was  convinced  of  this  fact : 
that  one  may  live  for  ten,  thirty,  or  forty  years  in 
a  foreign  city,  but  unless  one  makes  an  effort  at 
once,  unless  one  devotes  considerable  time  to  study, 
unless  one  is  always  standing,  as  Giusti  said,  "  with 
one's  eyes  wide  open,"  one  will  either  never  learn  to 
speak  the  language  or  Avill  speak  it  incorrectly.  At 
Madrid  I  was  acquainted  with  some  old  Italians  who 
had  lived  in  Spain  from  their  earliest  youth,  and  yet 
they  spoke  wretched  Spanish.  Indeed,  it  is  not  an 
easy  language,  even  for  us  Italians,  or,  to  speak 
more  clearly,  it  presents  the  great  difficulty  of  easy 
languages,  for  it  is  not  allowable  to  speak  them 
poorly,  and  yet  by  so  doing  one  can  make  one's  self 
Understood.  The  Italian  who  wishes  to  speak 


MADRID.  159 

Spanish  in  conversation  with  cultured  people,  where 
every  one  would  understand  him  if  he  spoke  French, 
must  justify  his  audacity  by  speaking  with  facility 
and  grace. 

Now,  the  Spanish  language,  precisely  because  it 
is  more  closely  allied  to  the  Italian  than  to  the 
French,  is  also  more  difficult  to  speak  rapidly,  and, 
for  the  same  reason,  more  difficult  to  speak  by  ear, 
without  making  awkward  mistakes,  because,  for  ex- 
ample, it  is  much  easier  to  say  propre,  mortuaire, 
delice  (the  French  words)  without  danger  of  letting 
slip  the  Italian  proprio,  mortuairo,  dclizia,  than  it  is 
to  say  the  Spanish  propio,  niortuorio,  dclicia.  One 
falls  back  into  Italian  unconsciously — inverts  the 
syntax  every  moment,  and  always  has  one's  own  lan- 
guage in  one's  ear  or  on  one's  tongue,  so  that  one 
keeps  stammering,  confusing  words,  and  betraying 
one's  self. 

Neither  is  the  pronunciation  of  Spanish  less  dif- 
ficult than  that  of  French.  The  Moorish,  although 
easy  to  pronounce,  is  very  difficult  when  two  fs  oc- 
cur in  a  word  or  several  of  them  in  a  clause.  The 
y,  which  is  pronounced  as  stutterers  pronounce  s, 
can  only  be  acquired  by  patient  effort,  for  it  is  a 
sound  which  at  first  proves  very  unpleasant,  and 
many  who  are  familiar  with  the  sound  do  not  like  to 
hear  it.  But  if  there  is  a  city  in  Europe  where  one 
is  able  to  acquire  the  language  of  a  country 
thoroughly,  that  city  is  Madrid,  and  the  same  thing 


160  MADRID. 

may  be  said  of  Toledo,  Valladolid,  and  Burgos.  The 
people  speak  as  the  scholars  write :  the  differences 
in  the  pronunciation  of  the  cultured  classes  and  the 
people  of  the  town  are  very  slight. 

And,  even  leaving  these  four  cities  out  of  the 
question,  the  Spanish  language  is  much  more  used 
and  much  more  common,  and  consequently  much 
more  vigorous  and  forcible,  in  the  daily  press,  on  the 
stage,  and  in  the  popular  literature  than  is  the  case 
with  the  Italian  language.  There  are  in  Spain  the 
Valencian,  the  Catalan,  the  Galician,  and  the  Mur- 
cian  dialects  and  the  very  ancient  language  of  the 
Basque  provinces.  But  Spanish  is  spoken  in  the 
two  Castiles,  in  Arragon,  in  Estremadura,  and  in 
Andalusia ;  that  is,  in  the  five  great  provinces.  The 
squib  enjoyed  at  Saragossa  is  enjoyed  at  Seville  also  ; 
the  popular  phrase  which  makes  a  hit  in  the  theatres 
of  Salamanca  produces  the  same  effect  in  the  theatres 
of  Granada.  They  say  that  the  Spanish  of  to-day 
is  not  at  all  the  language  of  Cervantes,  Quevedo, 
and  Lope  de  Vega ;  that  the  French  have  corrupted 
it ;  that  if  Charles  V.  should  come  to  life  again,  he 
would  no  longer  call  it  "  the  language  to  speak  with 
God ;"  and  that  Sancho  Panza  would  not  be  under- 
stood and  enjoyed.  Alas !  he  who  has  frequented 
the  little  cook-shops  and  the  low-rates  theatre  of  the 
suburbs  unwillingly  acquiesces  in  this  sentence. 

To  pass  from  the  tongue  to  the  palate,  one  needs 
a  little  good-will  to  accustom  one's  self  to  certain 


MADRID.  161 

sauces,  gravies,  and  poor  soups  of  the  Spanish 
cuisine,  but  I  accustomed  myself  to  them.  The 
French,  who  are  as  fussy  in  the  matter  of  eating  as 
spoiled  children,  invoke  the  wrath  of  Heaven  upon 
it.  Dumas  says  that  in  Spain  he  has  suffered  from 
hunger.  In  a  book  on  Spain  which  was  lately  before 
my  eyes  it  was  stated  that  the  Spanish  live  only  on 
honey,  fungi,  eggs,  and  snails.  But  this  is  all  stuff 
and  nonsense.  The  same  might  be  said  of  our  cook- 
ing. I  have  known  many  Spaniards  whose  stomachs 
were  turned  by  the  sight  of  maccaroni  and  gravy. 
They  make  most  too  many  potpies,  they  do  not  know 
how  to  use  fat,  and  they  season  a  little  too  highly, 
but  hardly  enough  to  take  away  Dumas's  appetite, 
and,  among  other  things,  they  are  master-hands  at 
sweets. 

Then  their  pucforo,  the  national  dish,  eaten  every 
day  by  everybody  in  every  place — I  speak  the 
truth,  I  ate  it  like  an  out-and-out  glutten, — thepuchcro 
is  to  the  culinary  art  what  the  anthology  is  to  litera- 
ture, a  little  of  the  best  of  everything.  A  good  piece 
of  boiled  beef  forms  the  nucleus  of  the  dish,  and 
around  this  a  wing  of  a  fowl,  a  slice  of  clwrizo  (sau- 
sage), lard,  herbs,  and  bacon,  and,  above  and  below 
and  in  all  the  interstices,  garbanzos.  Epicures  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  garbanzos  with  reverence.  They 
are  a  sort  of  chick-pea,  very  large,  very  tender,  and 
very  succulent — peas,  an  extravagant  man  might 
say,  that  have  fallen  down  from  some  world  where  a 
VOL.  I.— 11 


162  MADRID. 

vegetation  equal  to  ours  is  made  fruitful  by  a  stronger 
sun.  Such  is  the  ordinary  ptichero.  But  every  fam- 
ily modifies  it  according  to  its  purse.  The  poor 
are  content  with  meat  and  garbawos.  The  rich  add 
a  hundred  exquisite  tidbits.  After  all,  it  is  a  dinner 
rather  than  a  dish,  and  very  many  eat  nothing  else. 

A  good  puchero  and  a  bottle  of  Val  dc  Pcnas  are 
enough  to  satisfy  any  one.  I  say  nothing  of  the 
oranges,  the  Malaga  grapes,  asparagus,  artichokes, 
and  every  sort  of  vegetable  and  fruit,  which,  as  every 
one  knows,  are  very  fine  and  good  in  Spain.  Never- 
theless, the  Spanish  are  small  eaters,  and  because  the 
pepper  and  highly-seasoned  sauces  and  salt  meats 
predominate  in  their  cuisine,  because  they  eat  chorizos 
(sausages),  which,  as  they  say,  Icvantan  las  piedras, 
or  rather  burn  their  intestines,  they  drink  very  little 
wine.  After  the  fruit,  instead  of  beginning  to  sip  a 
good  bottle,  they  usually  take  a  cup  of  coffee  and  milk, 
and  they  rarely  drink  wine  in  the  morning.  At  the 
table  d'hote  in  the  hotels  I  have  never  seen  a  Span- 
iard empty  a  bottle,  while  I,  who  emptied  mine,  was 
stared  at  in  astonishment,  as  though  I  was  a  scandal- 
ous beast.  One  rarely  meets  a  drunken  man  in  a 
Spanish  city,  even  on  a  holiday,  and  on  this  account, 
when  one  considers  their  hot  blood  and  the  very  free 
use  they  make  of  knives  and  daggers,  there  occur 
fewer  fights  which  lead  to  death  or  bloodshed  than 
is  generally  believed  outside  of  Spain. 

As  I  had  found  board  and  lodging,  there  remained 


MADRID.  163 

nothing  else  for  me  to  do  but  wander  through  the 
city  with  the  Guidebook  in  my  pocket  and  a  tres- 
cuartos  cigar  in  my  mouth — "an  occupation  easy 
and  straightforward." 

During  the  first  days  I  could  not  keep  away  from 
the  plaza  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  I  would  stay  there 
hour  after  hour,  and  was  so  amused  by  it  that  I  could 
willingly  have  spent  days  there.  The  square  is 
worthy  of  its  fame,  not  so  much  for  its  size  and 
beauty  as  for  the  people,  the  life,  the  variety  of 
scene  which  it  presents  at  every  hour  of  the  day. 
It  is  not  a  square  like  other  squares :  it  is  at  once 
a  great  reception-hall,  a  promenade,  a  theatre,  an 
academy,  a  garden,  a  parade-ground,  and  a  bazaar. 
From  the  peep  of  day  until  after  midnight  it  con- 
tains one  stationary  crowd,  and  another  crowd  that 
comes  and  goes  through  the  ten  great  streets  which 
meet  there,  and  all  the  while  a  procession  and  inter- 
mingling of  carriages  which  make  one's  head  whirl. 
Business-men  congregate  there ;  there  gather  the 
demagogues  who  have  nothing  to  do,  unemployed 
clerks,  old  pensioners,  and  young  dandies ;  there 
they  talk  business  and  politics,  make  love,  prom- 
enade, read  the  papers,  dun  their  debtors,  search 
for  their  friends,  hatch  plots  against  the  ministry, 
coin  the  false  reports  which  make  the  round  of 
Spain,  and  weave  the  scandalous  chronicle  of  the 
city. 

On  the  sidewalks,  which  are  wide  enough  to  hold 


164  MADRID. 

four  carriages  abreast,  one  is  obliged  to  force  one's 
way.  In  a  space  no  larger  than  a  flagstone  you  see 
a  civil  guard,  a  matchseller,  a  broker,  a  beggar,  and 
a  soldier,  all  in  a  bunch.  Troops  of  scholars  pass — 
servants,  generals,  ministers,  peasants,  toreros,  and 
gentlemen.  Ruined  spendthrifts  ask  for  alms  in  a 
whisper,  so  as  not  to  be  discovered ;  lewd  wretches 
look  at  you  with  questioning  eyes ;  women  lightly 
nudge  you  on  the  elbow ;  on  every  side  there  are 
hats  in  the  air,  smiles,  shaking  of  hands,  cheery 
greetings,  cries  of  "  Largo  /"  from  the  laden  por- 
ters and  from  the  hawkers  with  their  wares  hanging 
about  their  necks  ;  the  shouts  of  newsboys,  the  shrill 
cry  of  the  water-carrier,  the  tooting  of  the  coach- 
horns,  the  cracking  of  whips,  the  clank  of  swords, 
the  tinkling  of  guitars,  and  the  songs  of  blind  beg- 
gars. There  regiments  pass  with  bands  of  music; 
the  king  passes ;  the  square  is  sprinkled  with  great 
jets  of  water,  which  cross  in  the  air;  men  go  by 
carrying  placards  to  advertise  the  shows ;  swarms 
of  gamins  with  their  arms  full  of  extra  editions  ;  then 
an  army  of  government  clerks ;  the  bands  of  music 
pass  again ;  lights  appear  in  the  shops ;  the  crowd 
grows  denser ;  the  blows  on  the  elbow  become  more 
frequent ;  the  voices  grow  louder ;  the  uproar  and 
commotion  increase.  It  is  not  the  activity  of  a  busy 
people  :  it  is  the  vivacity  of  a  high-spirited  race  ;  it 
is  a  Carnival  gaiety,  an  idleness  that  cannot  rest 
and  overflows  in  a  feverish  desire  for  pleasure,  which 


MADRID.  165 

seizes  one  and  holds  him  fast  or  drives  him  around 
like  a  reel  and  forbids  him  to  leave  the  square — a 
curiosity  which  never  wearies,  a  happy  desire  to  be 
amused,  to  think  of  nothing,  to  talk  small  talk,  to 
stroll  about  and  laugh.  Such  is  the  famous  plaza  of 
the  Puerta  del  Sol. 

An  hour  spent  there  is  enough  to  make  one  famil- 
iar with  the  people  of  Madrid  in  their  various  as- 
pects. The  common  people  dress  like  those  of  our 
great  cities ;  the  upper  classes,  when  they  lay  aside 
the  cloak  which  is  worn  in  winter,  are  attired  in  the 
Parisian  mode ;  and  from  the  duke  to  the  clerk, 
from  the  stripling  to  the  tottering  old  man,  they  are 
all  neat  and  tastefully  dressed,  bepowdered  and  per- 
fumed, as  though  they  had  just  stepped  out  of  a 
toilet-room.  In  this  respect  they  resemble  the  Nea- 
politans with  their  fine  heads  of  black  hair,  their 
carefully-trimmed  beards,  and  their  feminine  hands 
and  feet.  One  rarely  sees  a  low  hat :  they  all  wear 
high  hats.  Then  there  are  canes,  chains,  ornaments, 
pins  and  ribbons  in  their  buttonholes  by  the  thou- 
sand. 

Except  on  certain  holidays  the  ladies  also  dress 
like  the  French.  The  women  of  the  middle  classes 
still  wear  the  mantilla,  but  the  ancient  satin  shoes, 
the  peineta,  the  bright  colors — the  national  costume, 
in  a  word — have  disappeared.  They  are,  however, 
the  same  little  women,  so  praised  for  their  large  eyes, 
their  tiny  hands,  and  small  feet,  with  jet-black  hair, 


166  MADRID. 

a  skin  that  is  rather  fair  than  dark,  well  formed,  of 
good  carriage,  active,  and  vivacious. 

In  order  to  view  the  fair  sex  of  Madrid  one  should 
go  to  the  promenade  of  the  Prado,  which  is  to  Ma- 
drid what  the  Cascine  are  to  Florence. 

The  Prado,  to  be  precise,  is  a  very  wide  avenue, 
of  no  great  length,  flanked  by  smaller  avenues  which 
run  toward  the  eastern  part  of  the  city.  It  lies  be- 
side the  famous  gardens  of  Buen  Rctiro,  and  is  closed 
at  both  ends  by  two  enormous  stone  vases,  the  one 
surmounted  by  a  colossal  Cybele  sitting  on  a  shell 
and  drawn  by  sea-horses ;  the  other,  by  a  Neptune 
of  equal  size,  both  of  them  crowned  with  copious 
fountains,  whose  waters  interlace  and  fall  gracefully 
with  a  pleasant  murmur. 

This  great  avenue,  lined  along  the  sides  with  thou- 
sands of  chairs  and  hundreds  of  benches,  where  men 
sell  water  and  oranges,  is  the  most  frequented  part 
of  the  Prado,  and  is  called  the  Salon  del  Prado.  But 
the  walk  extends  beyond  the  fountain  of  Neptune : 
there  are  other  avenues,  other  fountains,  and  other 
statues,  and  one  may  walk  among  the  trees  and 
fountains  as  far  as  Our  Lady  of  Atocha,  the  famous 
church  loaded  with  gifts  by  Isabella  II.  after  the  out- 
rage of  February  2,  1852,  and  where  King  Amadeus 
went  to  visit  the  body  of  General  Prim.  From  that 
point  there  is  an  extended  view  of  a  vast  tract  of  the 
desert  plain  around  Madrid  and  of  the  snowy  sum- 
mits of  the  Guadarrama.  But  the  Prado  is  the  most 


Fountain  of  Cybele,  Alcala,  Madrid. 


MADRID.  167 

famous,  not  the  most  beautiful  nor  the  largest,  prom- 
enade in  the  city.  Beyond  the  Salon,  toward  the 
fountain  of  Cybele,  the  promenade  of  Recoletos  ex- 
tends for  almost  two  miles,  flanked  on  the  right  by 
the  large,  cheerful  town  of  Salamanca,  the  home  of 
the  rich,  of  the  deputies,  and  the  poets,  and  on  the 
left  by  a  long  chain  of  small  palaces,  villas,  theatres, 
and  new  buildings  painted  in  vivid  colors.  It  is  not 
a  single  promenade :  there  are  ten  avenues,  one  be- 
side another,  and  each  more  beautiful  than  the  last — 
streets  for  driving,  streets  for  riding,  walks  for  per- 
sons who  like  a  crowd,  and  walks  for  those  who  pre- 
fer to  be  alone,  divided  from  each  other  by  endless 
hedges  of  myrtle,  bordered  and  broken  by  gardens 
and  groves,  in  which  appear  statues  and  fountains, 
and  little  footpaths  which  cross  each  other.  On  fete- 
days  one  may  there  enjoy  a  charming  spectacle. 
From  one  end  of  the  avenues  to  the  other  pass  two 
processions  of  people,  carriages,  and  horsemen, 
going  in  opposite  directions. 

Li  the  Prado  one  can  scarcely  walk.  The  gardens 
are  crowded  by  thousands  of  boys  ;  the  theatres  are 
full  of  music ;  every  one  hears  the  murmur  of  foun- 
tains, the  swish  of  skirts,  the  shouting  of  children, 
and  the  cantering  of  horses.  It  is  not  only  the 
movement  and  the  gaiety  of  a  promenade :  it  is  the 
pomp,  the  uproar,  the  confusion,  the  feverish  delight 
of  a  fete.  The  city  is  deserted  during  those  hours. 
At  dusk  the  whole  of  that  immense  crowd  turns  back 


168  MADRID. 

into  the  great  Alcala  Street,  and  then  from  the  foun- 
tain of  Cybele,  as  far  as  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  one 
sees  only  a  sea  of  heads,  furrowed  by  a  line  of  car- 
riages as  far  as  the  eyes  can  reach. 

For  promenades — and,  in  fact,  for  theatres  and 
spectacular  exhibitions — Madrid  is,  without  doubt, 
one  of  the  first  cities  of  the  world.  Besides  the 
great  opera-house,  which  is  very  large  and  rich, 
besides  the  theatre  for  comedy,  the  theatre  of  the 
Zarzuela,  the  Madrid  circus — all  of  which  are  first 
class  in  point  of  size,  appointments,  and  attendance 
— there  is  a  circle  of  smaller  theatres  for  dramatic 
companies,  for  equestrian  exhibitions,  musical  organ- 
izations, and  vaudevilles — parlor  theatres,  theatres 
with  boxes  and  galleries,  theatres,  big  and  little, 
for  high  and  low,  to  suit  all  purses  and  all  tastes, 
and  for  all  hours  of  the  night ;  and  there  is  not  one 
among  so  many  that  is  not  crowded  at  every  per- 
formance. 

Then  there  are  the  cock-pits,  the  bull-rings,  the 
popular  balls,  and  the  games.  Some  days  there  are 
as  many  as  twenty  different  entertainments,  com- 
mencing at  noon  and  continuing  almost  to  dawn. 
The  opera,  of  which  the  Spanish  are  passionately 
fond,  is  always  magnificent,  not  only  at  the  time  of 
the  Carnival,  but  at  all  seasons.  While  I  was  at 
Madrid,  Fricci  sang  at  the  Zarzuela  and  Stagno  at 
the  circus ;  both  were  supported  by  very  able 


MADRID.  169 

artists,  with  excellent  orchestra  and  splendid  stage- 
setting. 

The  most  celebrated  singers  in  the  world  make  an 
effort  to  sing  in  the  capital  of  Spain,  for  artists  are 
there  sought  after  and  feted.  The  passion  for 
music  is  the  only  one  which  is  able  to  hold  its  own 
against  the  passion  for  bull-fights.  Comedy  is  in 
great  vogue  also.  L'Hatzembuch,  Breton  de  los 
Herreros,  Tamayo,  Ventura,  D'Ayala,  Gutierrez, 
and  a  great  many  other  dramatic  writers,  some 
living  and  some  dead,  who  are  known  even  beyond 
Spain,  have  enriched  the  modern  stage  by  a  large 
number  of  comedies,  which,  although  they  do  not 
bear  that  strong  national  stamp  which  has  immor- 
talized the  dramatic  works  of  the  great  century  of 
Spanish  literature,  are  nevertheless  full  of  life,  wit, 
and  cleverness,  without  the  unwholesome  tendency 
of  the  French  comedy.  But,  although  they  per- 
form modern  comedies,  they  are  not  unmindful  of 
the  old.  On  the  anniversaries  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
Calderon,  Morito,  Tirso  de  Molina,  Alarcon,  Fran- 
cesco de  Rojas,  and  the  other  great  lights  of  the 
Spanish  theatre  their  masterpieces  are  performed 
with  solemn  pomp.  The  actors,  however,  do  not 
seem  able  to  satisfy  the  authors,  and  show  the  defects 
of  our  own  actors — too  much  action,  ranting,  and  ex- 
cessive sobbing.  Many  even  prefer  our  actors,  because 
they  find  in  them  a  greater  variety  of  cadence  and 
inflection.  Besides  tragedy  and  comedy,  they  per- 


170  MADRID. 

form  a  dramatic  composition  that  is  thoroughly 
Spanish — the  za'mete,  of  which  Ramon  de  la  Cruz 
was  the  master.  It  is  a  sort  of  farce  which  in  great 
part  consists  of  tableaux  of  Andalusian  costumes, 
with  national  and  popular  characters,  and  actors  who 
imitate  the  dress,  speech,  and  customs  of  the  period 
in  an  admirable  manner.  The  comedies  are  all 
published,  and  are  eagerly  read  even  by  the  lowest 
classes,  and  the  names  of  the  authors  are  very 
popular.  Dramatic  literature,  in  a  word,  remains 
to-day,  as  it  was  in  former  times,  the  richest  and 
most  general. 

There  is  also  a  great  passion  for  the  zarzuela,) 
which  is  usually  represented  in  the  theatre  to  which 
it  has  given  the  name,  and  is  a  composition  midway 
between  comedy  and  melodrama,  between  opera  and 
vaudeville,  with  an  easy  interchange  of  prose  and 
verse,  of  recitation  and  singing,  of  the  serious  and 
burlesque — a  composition  exclusively  Spanish  and 
very  delightful.  In  some  theatres  they  perform 
political  comedies,  a  mixture  of  song  and  prose  after 
the  style  of  Scalvini's  "  reviews ;"  satirical  farces  to 
take  off  the  questions  of  the  day ;  a  sort  of  sacred 
tableaux,  with  scenes  from  the  Passion  of  Our 
Lord,  during  Holy  Week ;  and  balls  and  dances  and 
pantomimes  of  every  sort. 

In  the  small  theatres  they  give  three  or  four  per- 
formances a  night,  one  after  the  other,  and  new 
spectators  come  in  for  each  performance.  At  the 


MADRID.  171 

famous  Capellanes  Theatre  every  night  in  the  year 
they  dance  a  can-can,  scandalous  beyond  the  wildest 
imagination,  and  there  crowd  the  dissolute  young 
men,  the  fast  women,  and  the  old  libertines  with 
wrinkled  noses,  armed  with  monocles,  spectacles, 
opera-glasses,  and  every  sort  of  optical  instrument 
which  helps  to  bring  nearer  the  forms  advertised 
on  the  stage,  as  Aleardi  says. 

After  the  theatres  are  closed  one  finds  all  the 
cafes  crowded,  the  city  illuminated,  the  streets  filled 
with  countless  carriages,  just  as  in  the  early  evening. 
One  feels  a  little  sad  on  coming  out  of  a  theatre  in 
a  foreign  country,  there  are  so  many  beautiful 
creatures,  and  not  one  of  them  deigns  to  bestow  so 
much  as  a  glance  upon  one.  But  an  Italian  finds 
one  comfort  in  Madrid.  The  actors  almost  always 
sing  Italian  operas,  and  they  sing  in  Italian,  and  so, 
as  you  return  to  your  lodging,  you  hear  them  hum- 
ming in  the  words  of  your  own  language  the  airs 
which  you  have  known  from  infancy.  You  hear  a 
palpito  here,  a  fiero  genitor  there,  a  tremcnda  vendetta 
yonder ;  and  these  words  are  like  the  greetings  of  a 
friendly  people.  But  to  reach  your  house  what  a 
thick  hedge  of  petticoats  you  must  climb  over ! 
The  palm  is  given  to  Paris,  and  doubtless  she 
deserves  it,  but  Madrid  is  not  to  be  laughed  at. 
What  boldness  !  what  words  of  fire !  what  imperious 
provocations  !  Finally,  you  arrive  before  your  house 
to  find  that  you  have  no  door-key. 


172  MADRID. 

"  Do  not  be  disturbed,"  says  the  first  citizen  you 
meet.  "  Do  you  see  that  lantern  at  the  foot  of  the 
street  ?  The  man  who  carries  it  is  a  sereno,  and  the 
serenos  have  keys  for  all  the  houses."  Then  you  cry 
"  Sereno  !"  at  the  top  of  your  voice,  and  the  lantern 
approaches,  and  a  man  with  an  enormous  bunch  of 
keys  in  his  hands  gives  you  a  searching  glance, 
opens  the  door,  lights  you  to  the  second  story,  and 
bids  you  good-night.  So  it  is  every  night ;  for  a 
franc  a  month  you  escape  the  annoyance  of  carrying 
the  door-key  in  your  pocket.  The  sereno  is  a  public 
officer,  and  there  is  one  in  every  street,  and  each  of 
them  has  a  whistle.  If  the  house  takes  fire  or 
thieves  force  your  lock,  you  have  only  to  throw  up 
a  window  and  cry,  "  Sereno  !  help  !"  The  sereno 
who  is  in  the  street  sounds  his  whistle,  the  serenos 
of  the  neighboring  streets  whistle,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments all  the  serenos  in  the  district  run  to  your 
assistance.  At  whatever  hour  of  the  night  you 
awake  you  hear  the  voice  of  the  sereno  announcing 
the  time,  or  if  it  is  fine  weather,  or  if  it  is  raining 
or  going  to  rain.  How  many  things  he  knows  !  and 
how  many  he  never  tells !  this  nocturnal  sentinel. 
How  many  whispered  farewells  he  hears  from  the 
lips  of  lovers  !  How  many  little  letters  flutter  from 
the  windows  before  his  eyes !  how  many  little  keys 
fall  on  the  pavement !  and  how  many  hands  wave 
mysteriously  in  the  air !  Muffled  lovers  glide  through 
narrow  doorways,  and  lighted  windows  are  suddenly 


MADRID.  173 

darkened,  and  black  shadows  vanish  along  the  walls 
at  the  first  streaks  of  dawn. 

I  have  spoken  only  of  the  theatres ;  at  Madrid 
there  is  a  concert,  one  may  safely  say,  every  day. 
There  are  concerts  in  the  theatres,  concerts  in  the 
academy  halls,  concerts  in  the  streets,  and  then  a 
company  of  strolling  musicians  who  deafen  you  at 
all  hours  of  the  day.  After  all  this  one  has  a  right 
to  ask  why  it  is  that  a  people  so  infatuated  with  mu- 
sic that  it  seems  as  necessary,  so  to  speak,  as  the  air 
they  breathe,  have  never  produced  any  great  master 
of  the  art.  The  Spanish  will  not  be  comforted. 

One  could  cover  many  pages  if  he  were  to  de- 
scribe the  fine  suburbs  of  Madrid,  the  gates,  the 
parks  beyond  the  city,  the  squares,  the  historic 
streets  ;  and,  if  nothing  were  willingly  to  be  omitted, 
the  splendid  cafes,  the  "  Imperial "  in  the  square  of 
the  Puerto  del  Sol  and  the  Fornos  in  Alcala*  Street, 
two  vast  saloons,  in  which,  if  the  tables  were  re- 
moved, a  company  of  dragoons  could  be  drilled,  and 
the  innumerable  other  cafe's  which  one  finds  at  every 
step,  where  two  hundred  dancers  could  be  easily  ac- 
commodated ;  the  magnificent  shops  which  occupy 
the  entire  ground-floor  of  vast  buildings,  and  among 
them  the  great  Havana  tobacco  warehouse  (a  meet- 
ing-place for  gentlemen),  filled  with  cigars,  little  and 
big,  round,  flat,  pointed,  and  twisted,  winding  like 
snakes,  bent  like  bows,  hook-shaped,  of  every  shape, 
for  every  taste,  and  at  every  price,  enough  to  con- 


174  MADRID. 

tent  the  maddest  fancy  of  a  smoker  and  to  stupefy 
the  entire  population  of  a  city ;  spacious  markets ; 
the  grand  royal  palace,  in  which  the  Quirinal  and 
the  Pitti  Palace  might  hide  without  fear  of  dis- 
covery ;  the  great  street  Atocha,  which  crosses  the 
city ;  the  immense  garden  of  Buen  Rctiro,  with  its 
great  lake,  with  its  hills  crowned  with  Moorish 
domes,  and  its  thousands  of  rare  birds.  .  .  .  But, 
worthy  of  attention  above  everything  else,  the  mu- 
seums of  armor  and  painting,  and  the  Naval  Museum, 
to  each  of  which  one  might  easily  dedicate  a  volume. 
The  armory  of  Madrid  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful in  the  world.  As  you  enter  the  vast  hall  your 
heart  gives  a  leap,  your  blood  tingles,  and  you  stand 
still  on  the  threshold  like  one  demented.  A  com- 
plete army  of  cavalry  in  full  armor,  with  drawn 
swords  and  lances  in  rest,  gleaming  and  terrible, 
rushes  toward  you  like  a  legion  of  spectres.  It  is 
an  army  of  emperors,  kings,  and  dukes,  clad  in  the 
most  splendid  armor  that  has  ever  left  the  hands  of 
man,  upon  which  pours  a  flood  of  light  from  eighteen 
enormous  windows,  producing  a  marvellous  play  and 
flashing  of  light,  dancing  sunbeams,  and  dazzling 
colors.  The  walls  are  covered  with  cuirasses,  swords, 
halberds,  jousting-spears,  huge  blunderbusses,  and 
enormous  lances  which  reach  from  the  floor  to  the 
ceiling.  Banners  of  all  the  armies  of  the  world 
hang  from  the  ceiling — trophies  of  Lepanto,  of  San 
Quintino,  of  the  War  of  Independence,  of  the  wars 


MADRID.  175 

of  Africa,  Cuba,  and  Mexico.  On  every  side  there 
is  a  profusion  of  glorious  standards,  of  illustrious 
arms,  of  marvellous  works  of  art,  of  effigies,  em- 
blems, and  immortal  names. 

One  does  not  know  what  first  to  admire.  One 
runs  first  here,  then  there,  looking  at  everything 
and  seeing  nothing,  and  becomes  tired  before  one 
has  really  begun.  In  the  middle  of  the  hall  is  the 
equestrian  armor,  the  cavaliers  and  their  horses, 
drawn  up  in  line  by  threes  and  by  twos,  and  all 
wheeling  just  like  a  squadron  on  the  march.  Among 
the  arms  one  at  first  sight  discovers  those  of  Philip 
II.,  of  Charles  V.,  Philibert  Emmanuel,  and  Chris- 
topher Columbus.  Here  and  there,  on  pedestals,  one 
sees  helmets,  casques,  morions,  gorgets,  and  shields 
which  belonged  to  kings  of  Arragon,  Castile,  and 
Navarre,  adorned  with  very  fine  reliefs  in  silver 
representing  battles,  mythological  subjects,  symbolic 
figures,  trophies,  grotesques,  and  garlands :  some  of 
these  are  works  of  the  greatest  power,  the  workman- 
ship of  the  most  famous  artists  of  Europe ;  others 
are  uncouth  in  form,  with  excessive  ornament,  with 
crests,  visors,  and  colossal  top-pieces.  Then  there 
are  the  little  helmets  and  cuirasses  of  princes, 
swords  and  shields  the  gifts  of  popes  and  monarchs. 
In  the  midst  of  the  knightly  armor  one  sees  statues 
dressed  in  the  fantastic  costumes  of  the  American 
Indians,  of  Africans,  and  of  Chinese,  with  feathers 
and  bells,  bows  and  quivers ;  then,  too,  horrible  war- 


176  MADRID. 

masks  and  the  dresses  of  mandarins  of  gold  woven 
with  silk.  Along  the  walls  is  other  armor — the 
arms  of  the  marquis  de  Pescara,  of  the  poet  Gar- 
cilasso  de  la  Vega,  of  the  marquis  de  Santa  Cruz,  the 
gigantic  armor  of  John  Frederick,  the  magnanimous 
duke  of  Saxony,  and  scattered  here  and  there  are 
Arabian,  Persian,  and  Moorish  banners  falling  to 
decay. 

In  the  glass  cases  there  is  a  collection  of  swords 
which  make  your  blood  run  cold  when  you  hear  the 
names  of  those  who  wielded  them — the  sword  of  the 
prince  de  Conde,  the  sword  of  Isabella  the  Catholic, 
the  sword  of  Philip  II.,  the  sword  of  Hernando 
Cortez,  of  the  count-duke  d'Olivares,  of  John  of 
Austria,  of  Gonzalez  of  Cordova,  of  Pizarro ;  the 
sword  of  the  Cid,  and,  a  little  farther  along,  the 
helmet  of  King  Boabdil  of  Granada,  the  shield  of 
Francis  I.,  and  the  camp-chair  of  Charles  V.  In  a 
corner  of  the  hall  are  arranged  the  trophies  of  the 
Ottoman  armies — helmets  studded  with  gems,  spurs, 
gilded  stirrups,  the  collars  of  slaves,  daggers, 
scimitars  in  velvet  sheaths,  with  rings  of  gold, 
embroidered  and  inlaid  with  pearl ;  the  spoils  of 
Ali  Pacha,  who  was  slain  on  the  flag-ship  at  the 
battle  of  Lepanto,  his  caftan  brocaded  with  gold  and 
silver,  his  girdle,  sandals,  and  shields,  the  spoils  of 
his  sons,  and  the  banners  stripped  from  the  galleys. 
On  another  side  are  votive  crowns,  crosses,  and  the 
necklaces  of  Gothic  princes.  In  another  room 


MADRID.  177 

are  articles  taken  from  the  Indians  of  Mariveles, 
the  Moors  of  Cagyan  and  Mindanao,  and  the 
savages  of  the  most  remote  islands  of  Oceanica; 
collars  of  snail-shells,  stone  pipes,  wooden  idols,  reed 
flutes ;  ornaments  made  of  the  claws  of  insects ; 
slaves'  garments  made  of  palm-leaves  with  characters 
scribbled  on  them  to  serve  as  fetiches ;  poisoned 
arrows  and  axes  of  the  executioners.  And  then, 
wherever  one  turns,  there  are  royal  saddles,  coats  of 
mail,  culverins,  historic  drums,  shoulder-belts,  in- 
scriptions, memorials  and  images  of  every  time  and 
every  land,  from  the  fall  of  the  Goths  to  the  battle 
of  Tetuan,  from  Mexico  to  China — a  storehouse  of 
treasures  and  of  masterpieces  from  which  one  goes 
out  amazed  and  exhausted,  to  return  to  consciousness 
as  if  it  were  a  dream,  with  one's  memory  weary  and 
confused. 

If  a  great  Italian  poet  shall  one  day  wish  to  sing 
the  discovery  of  the  New  World,  nowhere  will  he 
be  able  to  find  so  powerful  an  inspiration  as  in  the 
Naval  Museum  of  Madrid,  because  in  no  other  place 
will  he  feel  so  profoundly  the  original  air  of  the 
American  wilderness  and  the  subtle  presence  of 
Columbus.  There  is  a  room  called  the  "  Cabinet  of 
Discoveries :"  the  poet  on  entering  this  room,  if  he 
really  has  the  soul  of  a  poet,  will  reverently  uncover 
his  head.  Wherever  one's  glance  falls  in  the  room 
one  sees  an  image  which  stirs  his  blood.  One  is  no 
longer  in  Europe  nor  in  the  century ;  one  is  in  the 
VOL.  I.— 12 


178  MADRID. 

America  of  the  fifteenth  century  j  one  breathes  that 
air,  one  sees  those  places,  and  lives  that  life.  In  the 
middle  is  a  high  trophy  of  the  arms  taken  from 
the  Indians  of  the  newly-discovered  land — shields 
covered  with  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  arrows  of 
cane  with  feathered  notches,  wooden  swords  with 
sheaths  woven  of  twigs,  with  hilts  ornamented  with 
horsehair,  and  scalp-locks  falling  in  long  streamers ; 
clubs,  spears,  enormous  axes,  great  swords  with 
teeth  like  those  of  a  saw,  shapeless  sceptres,  gigan- 
tic quivers,  garments  of  monkey-skin,  dirks  of  kings 
and  executioners,  arms  of  the  savages  from  Cuba, 
Mexico,  New  Caledonia,  the  Carolinas,  and  the  most 
distant  islands  of  the  Pacific — black,  uncouth,  and 
horrible,  suggesting  to  the  imagination  confused 
visions  of  terrible  struggles  in  the  mysterious 
shadows  of  the  virgin  forest,  in  an  endless  labyrinth 
of  unknown  trees.  Among  the  spoils  of  the  savage 
world  are  pictures  and  memorials  of  the  Conquerors : 
here  the  portrait  of  Columbus,  there  that  of  Pizarro, 
farther  on  that  of  Hernando  Cortez ;  on  one  of  the 
walls  the  map  of  America  by  Juan  de  la  Cosa, 
drawn  during  the  second  voyage  of  the  Genoese 
upon  an  ample  canvas  dotted  with  figures,  colors, 
and  signs  which  were  intended  to  direct  expeditions 
into  the  interior  of  the  country.  Near  the  map  is 
a  bit  of  the  tree  under  which  the  conqueror  of 
Mexico  lay  on  that  famous  "night  of  sorrow"  after 
he  had  opened  a  passage  through  the  immense  army 


MADRID.  179 

that  awaited  his  coming  in  the  valley  of  Otumba ; 
also  a  vase  turned  from  the  trunk  of  the  tree  near 
which  the  celebrated  Captain  Cook  died ;  models  of 
the  canoes,  boats,  and  rafts  used  by  the  natives ;  a 
circle  of  portraits  of  illustrious  navigators,  in  the 
middle  of  which  is  a  large  painting  of  the  three 
ships  of  Christopher  Columbus,  the  Nina,  the  Pinta, 
and  the  Santa  Maria,  at  the  moment  when  America 
was  discovered,  with  all  the  sailors  standing  on  the 
decks  waving  their  arms  and  cheering  lustily,  greet- 
ing the  new  land  and  giving  thanks  to  God.  There 
is  no  word  which  expresses  the  emotion  which  one 
feels  at  the  sight  of  that  spectacle,  no  tear  worth 
that  which  then  trembles  on  the  eyelash,  no  soul 
that  does  not  at  that  moment  feel  itself  ennobled. 
The  other  rooms,  of  which  there  are  ten,  are  also 
full  of  precious  objects.  In  the  room  next  to  the 
Cabinet  of  Discoveries  there  are  collected  the  relics 
of  the  battle  of  Trafalgar — the  painting  of  the 
Holy  Trinity  which  was  in  the  cabin  of  the  "  Royal 
Trinidad,"  and  which  was  rescued  by  the  English  a 
few  minutes  before  the  ship  went  to  the  bottom ;  the 
hat  and  sword  of  Frederick  de  Gravina,  the  admiral 
of  the  Spanish  fleet,  who  was  killed  that  day;  a 
large  model  of  the  Santa  Anna,  one  of  the  few  ships 
that  escaped  from  the  battle ;  banners  and  portraits 
of  admirals,  and  paintings  which  depict  episodes  of 
that  tremendous  struggle.  And  besides  the  relics 
of  Trafalgar  there  are  many  other  things  which 


180  MADRID. 

affect  the  mind  no  less  powerfully,  as  a  chalice  of 
wood  from  the  tree  called  ceiba,  in  whose  shade  was 
celebrated  the  first  mass  at  Havana,  on  the  19th  of 
March,  1519 ;  Captain  Cook's  cane ;  idols  of  the 
savages ;  flint  chisels  with  which  the  Indians  of 
Porto  Rico  fashioned  their  idols  before  the  discovery 
of  the  island.  And  beyond  this  there  is  another 
great  room  where,  on  entering,  one  finds  one's  self 
in  the  midst  of  a  fleet  of  galleys,  caravels,  feluccas, 
brigantines,  sloops,  and  frigates — ships  of  all  seas 
and  of  all  ages,  armed,  gayly  decked,  and  pro- 
visioned, so  that  they  need  only  a  wind  to  put  to  sea 
and  scatter  to  all  parts  of  the  world.  In  the  other 
rooms  there  is  an  exhibition  of  machinery,  ordnance, 
and  naval  armor ;  paintings  which  represent  all  the 
maritime  exploits  of  the  Spanish  people  ;  more 
portraits  of  admirals,  navigators,  and  mariners ; 
trophies  from  Asia,  America,  Africa,  and  Ocean ica, 
crowded  and  piled  one  above  another,  so  that  one 
must  pass  them  on  the  run  to  see  everything  before 
nightfall.  On  coming  out  of  the  Naval  Museum  it 
seems  as  if  you  are  just  returning  from  a  voyage 
around  the  world,  so  much  have  you  lived  in  those 
few  hours. 

There  is  also  at  Madrid  a  large  museum  of 
artillery,  an  immense  museum  of  the  industrial  arts, 
a  fine  archeological  museum,  a  remarkable  museum 
of  natural  history,  as  well  as  a  thousand  other  things 
that  are  worth  seeing ;  but  it  is  necessary,  however, 


Royal  Picture  Gallery,  Madrid. 


MADRID.  181 

to  sacrifice  the  description  of  them  for  the  marvellous 
Museum  of  the  Fine  Arts. 

The  day  on  which  one  enters  for  the  first  time  a 
museum  like  that  of  Madrid  forms  a  landmark  in  a 
man's  life.  It  is  an  important  event,  like  marriage, 
the  birth  of  a  child,  or  the  entrance  upon  an  inherit- 
ance ;  for  one  feels  the  effect  of  it  to  the  end  of  one's 
life.  And  this  is  true  because  a  museum  like  that 
of  Madrid  or  that  of  Florence  or  that  of  Rome  is  a 
world  :  a  day  passed  within  its  walls  is  a  year  of  life  : 
a  year  of  life  stirred  by  all  the  passions  which  are 
able  to  animate  one  in  real  life  :  love,  religion,  patriot- 
ism, glory  ;  a  year  of  life  in  the  enjoyment  it  gives, 
in  the  instruction  it  imparts,  in  the  thoughts  it  sug- 
gests, in  the  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  its  memory 
in  the  future ;  a  year  of  life  in  which  one  reads  a 
thousand  volumes,  feels  a  thousand  sensations,  and 
meets  with  a  thousand  adventures.  These  thoughts 
were  in  my  mind  as  I  approached  with  rapid  steps 
the  Museum  of  the  Fine  Arts,  situated  to  the  left  of 
the  Prado  as  one  comes  from  the  street  Alcala ;  and 
so  great  was  my  pleasure  that  on  reaching  the  door- 
way I  stopped  and  said  to  myself,  "  Let  us  see : 
what  have  you  ever  done  in  your  life  to  deserve  an 
entrance  here  ?  Nothing  !  Well,  then,  on  that  day 
when  some  misfortune  comes  upon  you  bow  your 
head  and  consider  that  your  account  is  balanced." 

As  I  entered  I  unconsciously  raised  my  hat :  my 
heart  beat  fast  and  a  slight  shiver  ran  through  me 


182  MADRID. 

from  head  to  foot.  In  the  first  room  there  are  only 
some  large  paintings  of  Luca  Giordano.  I  passed 
them  by.  In  the  second  I  was  no  longer  myself, 
and,  instead  of  staying  to  look  at  paintings  one  by 
one,  I  postponed  that  examination  and  made  the 
circuit  of  the  gallery  almost  on  the  run.  In  the 
second  room  there  are  some  paintings  of  Goya,  the 
last  great  Spanish  painter  ;  in  the  third,  which  is  as 
large  as  a  square,  are  masterpieces  of  the  great 
masters.  On  entering  you  see  on  one  side  the 
Madonnas  of  Murillo,  on  the  other  the  saints  of  Ri- 
bera ;  a  little  farther  on,  the  portraits  of  Velasquez  ; 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  paintings  of  Raphael, 
Michelangelo,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  and  at  the  end 
those  of  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Paul  Veronese,  Correggio, 
Domenichino,  and  Guido  Reni.  You  turn  back  and 
enter  a  great  room  to  the  right.  There  you  see  at 
the  end  other  paintings  of  Raphael ;  on  the  right 
and  left,  more  of  Velasquez,  Titian,  and  Ribera ; 
opposite  the  entrance,  Rubens,  Van  Dyck,  Fra 
Angelico,  and  Murillo.  Another  is  devoted  to  the 
French  school — Poussin,  Daguet,  Lorraine.  In  two 
other  rooms  of  vast  size  the  walls  are  covered  with 
paintings  of  Breughel,  Teniers,  Jordaens,  Rubens, 
Durer,  Schoen,  Mongs,  Rembrandt,  and  Bosch.  In 
the  other  rooms,  of  equal  size,  there  is  a  medley 
of  the  works  of  Joanes,  Carbajal,  Herrera,  Luca 
Giordano,  Carducci,  Salvator  Rosa,  Menendez,  Cano, 
and  Ribera. 


MADRID.  183 

You  walk  for  an  hour  and  have  seen  nothing. 
For  the  first  hour  a  war  is  waging :  the  masterpieces 
struggle  for  the  possession  of  your  soul.  The 
Conception  of  Murillo  blots  out  Ribera's  Martyrdom 
of  Saint  Bartholomew  with  a  flood  of  light ;  Ribera's 
Saint  James  obliterates  Joanes'  Saint  Stephen; 
Titian's  Charles  V.  dooms  the  Count-Duke  de 
Olivares  of  Velasquez  ;  Raphael's  Pasmo  de  Sicilia 
casts  all  the  paintings  around  it  in  the  shade ;  the 
Drunkards  of  Velasquez,  with  their  reflection  of 
bacchanalian  joy,  somewhat  disconcert  the  faces  of 
the  neighboring  saints  and  princes;  Rubens  over- 
throws Van  Dyck ;  Paolo  Veronese  triumphs  over 
Tiepolo,  and  Goya  kills  Madrazo. 

The  conquered  turn  against  those  still  weaker 
than  themselves,  or  in  their  turn  win  lesser  victo- 
ries over  their  conquerors.  It  is  a  struggle  of  the 
miracles  of  art,  in  the  midst  of  which  one's  restless 
soul  trembles  like  a  flame  fanned  by  a  thousand 
gusts  of  wind,  and  one's  heart  expands  with  a  sense 
of  pride  in  the  power  of  the  genius  of  man. 

When  the  first  enthusiasm  has  subsided  one 
begins  to  admire.  In  the  midst  of  an  army  of  such 
artists,  each  of  whom  would  require  a  volume  for 
himself,  I  restrict  myself  to  the  Spaniards,  and 
among  these  to  the  painters  who  aroused  within  me 
the  most  profound  admiration  and  whose  canvases  I 
remember  most  distinctly.  The  most  recent  of  these 
is  Goya,  who  was  born  toward  the  end  of  the  last 


184  MADRID. 

century.  As  a  painter  he  is  the  most  Spanish  of 
the  Spaniards,  the  painter  of  toreros,  of  the  people, 
of  contrabandists,  hags,  and  robbers,  of  the  War 
of  Independence,  and  of  that  old  Spanish  life  which 
melted  away  before  his  very  eyes.  He  was  a  fiery 
son  of  Arragon,  of  iron  temper,  passionately  devoted 
to  bull-fights,  so  that  even  in  the  closing  years  of 
his  life,  when  he  was  living  at  Bordeaux^  he  was 
accustomed  to  come  once  a  week  to  Madrid  with  no 
other  reason  than  to  witness  those  spectacles  5  and 
he  would  go  back  like  an  arrow,  not  even  so  much 
as  saluting  his  friends.  A  genius  rigorous,  cynical, 
imperious,  awe-inspiring — who  in  the  heat  of  his 
violent  inspirations  would  in  a  few  moments  cover 
a  wall  or  a  canvas  with  figures,  giving  the  finish- 
ing touches  with  whatever  came  to  hand — sponges, 
brooms,  or  sticks ;  who  in  sketching  the  face  of  a 
person  whom  he  hated  would  insult  it  j  who  painted 
a  picture  as  he  would  have  fought  a  battle ;  very 
bold  in  composition,  an  original  strong  colorist,  the 
creator  of  an  inimitable  style,  with  frightful  shadows, 
hidden  lights,  and  resemblances  distorted  and  yet 
true  to  life.  He  was  a  great  master  in  the  expres- 
sion of  all  terrible  effects  of  anger,  hate,  desperation, 
and  the  thirst  for  blood ;  an  athletic,  turbulent, 
indefatigable  painter;  a  naturalist  like  Velasquez, 
fantastical  like  Hogarth,  vigorous  like  Rembrandt, 
the  last  ruddy  spark  of  Spanish  genius.  There  are 
several  of  his  paintings  in  the  museum  of  Madrid, 


MADRID.  185 

and  among  them  is  a  very  large  canvas  representing 
the  entire  family  of  Charles  IV.  But  the  two 
paintings  into  which  he  put  his  whole  soul  are  the 
French  soldiers  shooting  the  Spaniards  on  the  second 
of  May,  and  the  fight  of  the  people  of  Madrid  with 
the  Mamelukes  of  Napoleon,  in  which  the  figures 
are  life-size.  These  are  paintings  which  make  one 
shudder.  One  cannot  imagine  anything  more 
terrible,  nor  is  it  possible  to  give  overbearing  power 
a  form  more  execrable,  to  desperation  a  more  fear- 
ful appearance,  or  to  the  fury  of  a  battle  an  expres- 
sion of  greater  ferocity.  In  the  first  of  these  paint- 
ings there  is  a  murky  sky,  the  light  of  a  lantern,  a 
pool  of  blood,  a  confused  mass  of  corpses,  a  crowd 
of  men  condemned  to  death,  a  row  of  French 
soldiers  in  the  act  of  firing :  in  the  other,  bleeding 
horses,  cavaliers  dragged  from  their  saddles,  stabbed, 
trampled  down,  and  mangled.  What  faces !  what 
attitudes  !  One  seems  to  hear  the  cries  and  see  the 
blood  run ;  the  actual  scene  could  not  have  been 
more  horrible.  Goya  must  have  painted  these 
pictures  with  flashing  eyes  and  foaming  mouth,  with 
all  the  fury  of  a  demoniac.  It  is  the  final  point 
which  painting  can  reach  before  it  is  transferred  into 
action ;  beyond  this  point  the  brush  is  flung  aside 
and  the  battle  begins.  Anything  more  terrible  than 
these  paintings  must  be  slaughter ;  after  these  colors 
comes  blood. 

Of  Ribera — whom  we  know  also  by  the  name  of 


186  MADRID. 

Spagnoletto — there  are  enough  paintings  to  form  a 
museum.  They  consist  in  great  part  of  life-size 
figures  of  saints ;  a  martyrdom  of  Saint  Bar- 
tholomew, full  of  figures;  a  colossal  Prometheus 
chained  to  a  rock.  Other  paintings  of  his  are  found 
in  other  museums,  at  the  Escurial,  and  in  the 
churches,  for  he  was  very  productive  and  industrious, 
like  almost  all  the  Spanish  artists.  After  seeing  a 
painting  of  his,  one  recognizes  all  the  others  at  a 
glance,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  look  at  them  with  the 
eye  of  z.  critic  to  do  this.  There  are  old  emaciated 
saints  with  shaved  heads  and  naked,  so  that  one  can 
count  their  veins ;  with  hollcw  eyes,  fleshless  cheeks, 
furrowed  brows,  and  sunken  chests,  through  which 
one  can  see  their  ribs ;  arms  and  hands  which  are 
only  skin  and  bones  ;  bodies  worn  out  and  exhausted, 
clothed  in  rags — yellow  with  the  deathly  pallor  of 
corpses,  full  of  sores,  and  covered  with  flood ;  car- 
cases which  seem  to  have  been  just  dragged  from 
ihe  tomb,  bearing  on  their  faces  the  impress  of  all 
the  spasms  of  pain,  torture,  famine,  and  sleeplessness  ; 
figures  from  the  anatomist's  table,  from  which  you 
might  study  all  the  secrets  of  the  human  organism. 
Admirable  ?  Yes,  for  boldness  of  design,  for  strength 
of  color,  and  for  the  thousand  other  merits  which 
won  for  Ribera  the  fame  of  a  most  powerful  painter. 
But  true  and  great  art — ah,  it  is  not  that !  In  those 
faces  there  is  none  of  that  celestial  light,  that 
immortal  ray  of  the  soul,  which  reveals  with  sublime 


MADKID.  187 

pathos,  noble  aspirations,  those  "  subtle  flashes  "  and 
u  limitless  desires  " — that  light  which  draws  the  eye 
from  the  sores  and  calls  down  the  thought  of  heaven. 
There  is  only  the  crude  suffering  which  causes 
repulsion  and  fear ;  there  are  only  weariness  of  life 
and  the  presentiment  of  death ;  only  that  fleeting 
mortal  life  without  a  suggestion  of  the  immortality 
drawing  near.  There  is  not  one  of  those  saints 
whose  image  one  recalls  with  affection :  one  looks 
and  is  chilled  at  heart,  but  the  heart  beats  none  the 
quicker.  Ribera  never  loved.  Yet  as  I  hurried 
through  the  halls  of  the  museum,  in  spite  of  that 
strong  repugnance  which  many  of  these  paintings 
inspired  in  me,  I  was  obliged  to  look  at  them  and 
could  not  withdraw  my  eyes,  so  great  is  the  attrac- 
tive force  of  truth,  even  if  it  be  despicable.  And 
how  true  are  the  paintings  of  Ribera !  I  recognized 
those  faces :  I  had  seen  them  in  the  hospitals,  in  the 
morgues,  behind  the  doors  of  churches — the  faces 
of  beggars,  of  the  dying,  of  those  condemned  to 
death,  which  haunt  me  at  night  even  now  when  I 
hurry  along  a  deserted  street,  pass  by  a  graveyard, 
or  climb  a  mysterious  staircase.  There  are  some  of 
them  which  I  could  not  look  at — a  naked  hermit, 
stretched  on  the  ground,  who  seemed  like  a  skeleton 
covered  with  skin ;  an  old  saint  whose  shrunken  skin 
gave  the  appearance  of  a  flayed  body ;  the  Prome- 
theus with  his  entrails  bursting  from  his  breast. 
Ribera  delighted  in  blood,  mangled  limbs,  and 


188  MADRID. 

butchery ;  it  was  his  delight  to  represent  suffering  •, 
he  must  have  believed  in  an  Inferno  more  horrible 
than  that  of  Dante  and  in  a  God  more  terrible  than 
that  of  Philip  II.  In  the  museum  of  Madrid  he 
represents  religious  dread,  old  age,  torture,  and 
death. 

More  cheerful,  more  various,  and  more  splendid  is 
the  great  Velasquez.  Almost  all  his  masterpieces 
are  there.  They  form  a  world :  everything  is 
pictured  in  them — war,  the  court,  the  street,  the 
tavern,  Paradise.  It  is  a  gallery  of  dwarfs,  idiots, 
beggars,  buffoons,  revellers,  comedians,  kings, 
warriors,  martyrs,  and  gods,  all  alive  and  speak- 
ing, in  bold  and  novel  attitudes,  with  serene  brow 
and  smiling  lip,  full  of  animation  and  vigor;  the 
great  painting  of  Count-Duke  de  Olivares  on 
horseback,  the  celebrated  paintings  of  the  Beggars, 
of  the  Weavers,  of  the  Revellers,  the  Forge  of 
Vulcan,  and  of  the  surrender  of  Breda — large 
canvases  full  of  figures  which  seem  to  be  stepping 
out  of  the  frame,  which  on  once  seeing  you  re- 
member distinctly  by  some  trifling  characteristic,  a 
gesture  or  a  shadow  on  the  face,  as  though  they 
were  real  persons  whom  you  have  just  met ;  people 
with  whom  you  seem  to  have  talked,  and  of  whom 
you  think  long  afterward  as  of  acquaintances  of  a 
forgotten  time ;  people  who  might  inspire  cheerful- 
ness and  provoke  a  smile  of  admiration,  causing  you  to 
regret  that  it  is  possible  only  to  enjoy  them  with  the 


Duke  d'Olivares,  by  Velasquez. 


MADRID.  189 

eyes  and  not  to  mingle  with  them  and  share  a  little 
of  their  exuberant  life.  This  is  not  the  effect  of  a 
preconceived  opinion  which  the  name  of  the  great 
artist  has  given,  nor  need  one  be  a  connoisseur  of 
art  to  experience  it.  The  poor  ignorant  woman  and 
the  boy  stop  before  those  pictures,  clap  their  hands, 
and  laugh.  It  is  Nature  painted  with  a  fidelity 
higher  than  any  imagination.  One  forgets  the 
painter,  does  not  think  of  the  art,  nor  try  to  discover 
its  meaning,  but  says,  "  This  is  true !  This  is  the 
very  thing !  It  is  the  picture  I  had  in  my  mind !" 
One  would  say  that  Velasquez  has  not  put  anything 
of  himself  in  it,  but  that  his  hand  has  only  drawn 
the  lines  and  put  the  colors  on  the  canvas  from  a 
likeness  which  reproduced  the  very  persons  whom 
he  was  painting.  There  are  more  than  sixty  of  his 
paintings  in  the  museum  of  Madrid,  and  if  one  saw 
them  only  once,  and  hurriedly  at  that,  not  one  of 
them  would  be  forgotten.  It  is  with  the  paintings 
of  Velasquez  as  with  the  romances  of  Alessandro 
Manzoni — when  one  has  read  them  for  the  tenth 
time  they  become  so  interwoven  and  confused  with 
one's  personal  memories  that  one  seems  to  have 
lived  them.  So  the  persons  in  Velasquez's  paint- 
ings melt  into  the  crowd  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances; the  neighbors  and  strangers  of  our  whole 
life  present  themselves  and  entertain  us  without 
our  even  remembering  that  we  have  seen  them  on 
the  canvas. 


190  MADRID. 

Now  let  us  speak  of  Murillo  in  our  gentlest  tones. 
Velasquez  is  in  art  an  eagle ;  Murillo  is  an  angel. 
One  admires  Velasquez  and  adores  Murillo.  By  his 
canvases  we  know  him  as  if  he  had  lived  among  us. 
He  was  handsome,  good,  and  virtuous.  Envy  knew 
not  where  to  attack  him ;  around  his  crown  of  glory 
he  bore  a  halo  of  love.  He  was  born  to  paint  the 
sky.  Fortune  gave  him  a  mild  and  serene  genius, 
which  bore  him  to  God  on  the  wings  of  a  tranquil 
inspiration,  and  yet  his  most  admirable  paintings 
breathe  an  air  of  gentle  sweetness  which  inspires 
sympathy  and  affection  even  before  admiration. 
A  simple  nobility  and  elegance  of  outline,  an 
expression  full  of  sprightliness  and  grace,  an  inex- 
pressible harmony  of  colors, — these  are  the  qualities 
that  impress  one  at  first  sight ;  but  the  more  one 
looks  at  the  paintings,  the  more  one  discovers,  and 
surprise  is  transformed  little  by  little  into  a  delicious 
sense  of  pleasure.  His  saints  have  a  benign  aspect, 
cheering  and  consoling ;  his  angels,  whom  he  groups 
with  marvellous  ability,  make  one's  lips  tremble 
with  a  desire  to  kiss  them ;  his  Virgins,  clothed  in 
white,  with  long  flowing  draperies  of  azure,  witb 
their  great  black  eyes,  their  clasped  hands,  delicate, 
graceful,  and  ethereal,  make  one's  heart  tremble 
with  their  beauty  and  one's  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
He  combines  the  truth  of  Velasquez,  the  vigor  of 
Ribera,  the  harmonious  transparency  of  Titian,  and 
the  brilliant  vivacity  of  Rubens.  Spain  has  given 


Virgin  of  the  Napkin,  by  Murillo. 


MADRID.  191 

him  the  name  of  the  "  Painter  of  Conceptions " 
because  he  is  unsurpassed  in  the  art  of  representing 
that  divine  idea.  There  are  four  grand  Conceptions 
in  the  museum  of  Madrid.  I  have  stood  for  hours 
in  front  of  those  four  paintings,  motionless  and 
entranced.  I  was  enraptured,  above  all,  by  that 
incomplete  one,  with  the  arms  folded  over  the 
Virgin's  breast  and  a  half  moon  across  her  waist. 
Many  prefer  the  others  ;  I  trembled  on  hearing  this, 
for  I  was  filled  with  an  inexpressible  love  for  that 
face.  More  than  once  as  I  looked  at  it  I  felt  the 
tears  coursing  down  my  cheeks.  As  I  stood  before 
that  painting  my  heart  was  softened  and  my  mind 
was  lifted  to  a  plane  of  thought  higher  than  any  I 
had  ever  before  reached.  It  was  not  the  enthusiasm 
of  faith ;  it  was  a  longing,  a  boundless  aspiration 
toward  faith,  a  hope  which  gave  me  visions  of  a  life 
nobler,  richer,  and  more  beautiful  than  that  which 
I  had  yet  known — a  new  feeling  of  prayer,  a  desire 
to  love,  to  do  good,  to  suffer  for  others,  to  make 
atonement,  to  elevate  my  mind  and  heart.  I  have 
never  been  so  full  of  faith  as  in  those  moments. 
I  have  never  felt  so  good  and  affectionate,  and  I 
believe  that  my  soul  has  never  shone  more  clearly 
in  my  face.  The  Lady  of  Sorrows,  Saint  Anna 
Teaching  flie  Virgin  to  Read,  Christ  Crucified,  The 
Annunciation,  The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  The 
Holy  Family,  TJie  Virgin  of  the  Rosary,  and  TJie 
Child  Jesus  are  all  admirable  and  beautiful  paintings 


192  MADRID. 

of  a  soft  and  serene  light  which  appeal  to  the  soul. 
One  should  see  on  a  Sunday  the  children,  the  girls, 
and  the  poor  women  before  those  pictures — see  how 
their  faces  light  up  and  hear  the  sweet  words  upon 
their  lips.  Murillo  is  a  saint  to  them,  and  they 
speak  his  name  with  a  smile,  as  if  to  say,  "  He 
is  ours  !"  and  in  so  saying  they  look  as  though  they 
were  performing  an  act  of  reverence.  The  artists 
do  not  all  regard  him  in  the  same  manner,  but  they 
love  him  above  all  others,  and  they  are  not  able  to 
divorce  their  admiration  from  their  love. 

Murillo  is  not  merely  a  great  painter ;  he  is  a  great 
soul.  He  has  won  more  than  glory  :  he  has  won  the 
love  of  Spain.  He  is  more  than  a  sovereign  master 
of  the  beautiful ;  he  is  a  benefactor,  an  inspiration  to 
noble  deeds,  for  a  lovely  image,  when  once  seen  on 
his  canvas,  is  carried  in  the  heart  throughout  life 
with  a  feeling  of  gratitude  and  religious  devotion. 
He  is  one  of  those  men  whom  some  secret  prompt- 
ing tells  us  we  must  see  again,  and  that  the  meeting 
will  be  a  reward  :  such  men  cannot  have  disappeared 
for  ever ;  in  some  place  they  still  live  where  their 
life  is  as  a  lamp  of  constant  flame,  which  must  one 
day  appear  to  the  eyes  of  mortals  in  all  its  splendor. 
"  The  empty  dreams  of  fancy,"  one  may  say,  but, 
ah,  what  pleasant  dreams ! 

After  the  works  of  these  four  great  masters  there 
are  the  paintings  of  Joanes  to  admire — an  artist  im- 
bued with  the  Italian  feeling,  whose  correct  drawing 


MADKID.  193 

and  nobility  of  character  have  won  for  him  the  title, 
although  it  must  be  spoken  in  an  undertone,  of  the 
Spanish  Raphael.  He  resembles  Fra  Angelico  in  his 
life,  not  in  his  art,  for  his  studio  was  an  oratory 
where  he  fasted  and  did  penance.  Before  beginning 
his  work  he  used  to  take  the  communion. 

Then  there  are  the  paintings  of  Alonzo  Cano ;  the 
paintings  of  Pacheco,  the  master  of  Murillo  ;  the 
paintings  of  Pareja,  Velasquez's  slave ;  of  Navar- 
rete  the  mute ;  of  Menendez,  a  great  painter  of 
flowers ;  of  Herrera,  Coello,  Carbajal,  Collantes,  and 
Rizi,  and  there  are  a  few  works  of  Zurbaran,  one  of 
the  greatest  Spanish  artists,  worthy  to  stand  beside 
the  three  first.  The  corridors,  the  antechambers, 
and  the  halls  are  full  of  the  works  of  other  artists, 
of  less  importance  than  those  mentioned,  but  never- 
theless admirable  for  particular  points. 

But  this  is  not  the  only  art  gallery  in  Madrid  ;  there 
are  hundreds  of  pictures  in  the  Academy  of  San  Fer- 
nando. In  the  chambers  of  Fomento  and  in  other  pri- 
vate galleries  one  would  have  to  spend  month  after 
month  to  see  everything  well,  and  to  describe  it  would 
take  an  equal  time,  even  if  one  had  sufficient  ability 
to  do  so.  One  of  the  ablest  French  writers,  a  great 
lover  of  art  and  a  master  of  description,  when  it  came 
to  the  point  was  frightened  and  knew  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  avoid  the  dilemma  by  saying  that  it 
would  take  too  long  to  describe  it  all ;  and  if  he 
thought  well  to  keep  silent,  it  must  appear  that  I 

VOL.  I.— 13 


194  MADRID. 

have  said  too  much  already.  It  is  one  of  the  saddest 
consequences  of  a  pleasant  journey  to  discover  that 
one  has  in  one's  mind  a  crowd  of  lovely  images  and 
in  one's  heart  a  tumult  of  grand  emotions,  and  to  be 
able  to  express  only  so  small  a  part  of  them. 

With  what  profound  contempt  could  I  destroy 
these  pages  when  I  think  of  those  paintings  !  O 
Murillo  !  O  Velasquez  !  O  my  poor  pen  ! 

A  few  days  after  my  arrival  at  Madrid,  as  I  was 
coming  from  the  street  Alcala  into  the  square  of  the 
Puerta  del  Sol,  I  saw  King  Amadeus  for  the  first 
time.  I  felt  it  to  be  as  great  a  pleasure  as  if  I  had 
met  my  most  intimate  friend.  It  is  strange  to  find 
one's  self  in  a  country  where  the  only  person  one 
knows  is  the  king.  One  could  wish  to  run  after 
him  saying,  "  Your  Majesty,  it  is  I  j  I  have  ar- 
rived." 

Amadeus  pursued  his  father's  course  at  Madrid. 
He  rose  at  dawn  and  walked  in  the  gardens  of  Moro, 
which  lie  between  the  royal  palace  and  the  Manza- 
nares,  or  else  he  visited  the  museums,  walking 
through  the  city  on  foot  with  only  one  attendant. 
The  maids,  running  home  in  breathless  haste  with 
their  well-filled  baskets,  told  their  sleepy  mistresses 
how  they  had  met  the  king,  how  they  had  passed 
him  so  near  that  he  could  have  touched  them ;  and 
the  Republican  matrons  would  say,  "  And  so  he 
ought  to  !"  And  the  Carlists  would  make  a  grimace 
and  mutter,  "  What  sort  of  a  king  is  that  ?"  Or  as 


Velasquez's  Forge  of  Vulcan. 


MADRID.  195 

I  heard  one  say,  "  He  seems  determined  to  get  shot 
at  any  cost."  On  returning  to  the  palace  he  re- 
ceived the  captain-general  and  the  governor  of  Ma- 
drid, who,  in  accordance  with  the  ancient  custom, 
are  obliged  to  present  themselves  every  day  to  the 
king  to  ask  if  he  has  any  orders  to  give  to  the  army 
or  the  police.  Next  came  the  ministers.  Besides 
seeing  them  altogether  in  council  once  a  week, 
Amadeus  received  one  of  them  every  day.  On  the 
departure  of  the  minister  the  audience  began. 

Amadeus  gave  an  audience  every  day  of  at  least 
one  hour's  duration,  and  many  times  prolonged  it  to 
two  hours.  The  demands  were  innumerable,  and 
the  ends  sought  may  be  easily  imagined — subsidies, 
pensions,  positions,  favors,  and  decorations.  The 
king  heard  them  all.  The  queen  also  received — not 
every  day,  however,  on  account  of  her  variable 
health.  To  her  lot  fell  all  the  deeds  of  charity. 
She  received  all  sorts  of  people  in  the  presence  of 
the  major-domo  and  a  lady  of  honor  at  the  hour  of 
the  king's  audience — ladies,  laboring-men,  peasant- 
women,  hearing  with  pity  their  long  recitals  of  pov- 
erty and  suffering;  moreover,  she  distributed  in 
works  of  charity  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a 
month,  without  counting  her  liberal  donations  to 
hospitals,  asylums,  and  other  benevolent  institutions, 
some  of  which  she  herself  founded. 

On  the  bank  of  the  Manzanares,  in  sight  of  the 
royal  palace,  in  an  open  smiling  place,  one  sees  a 


196  MADRID. 

brightly-colored  cottage  surrounded  by  a  garden, 
when  as  one  passes  one  hears  the  laughter,  the 
crowing,  and  the  crying  of  babies.  The  queen  had 
this  house  built  to  shelter  the  little  children  of 
washerwomen,  who,  while  their  mothers  were  at 
work,  used  to  remain  in  the  streets  exposed  to  a 
thousand  dangers.  There  are  teachers,  nurses,  and 
servants  who  provide  for  all  the  needs  of  the  babies : 
it  is  at  the  same  time  a  refuge  and  a  school.  The 
funds  for  the  construction  and  maintenance  of  the 
house  were  appropriated  from  the  twenty-five  thou- 
sand francs  a  month  which  the  state  had  granted  to 
the  duke  of  Puglia.  The  queen  also  instituted  a 
foundling  hospital,  a  home  or  sort  of  college  for 
the  children  of  the  tobacco-workers,  and  kitchens 
where  soup,  meat,  and  bread  are  distributed  to  all 
the  poor  of  the  city.  She  herself  went  unexpect- 
edly sometimes  to  assist  at  the  distribution,  to 
assure  herself  that  no  abuse  was  made  of  it,  and, 
discovering  that  some  trickery  was  practised,  she  pro- 
vided against  its  repetition.  Besides  these  acts,  the 
Sisters  of  Charity  received  every  month  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  with  which  to  succor  those  families  that 
by  reason  of  their  social  position  were  not  able  to 
come  to  the  distribution  of  soup.  These  private 
deeds  of  benevolence  which  the  queen  performed 
were  very  difficult  to  discover,  because  she  was  ac- 
customed to  do  them  without  speaking  to  any  one. 
Little  is  known  of  her  habits,  because  she  did  every- 


MADRID.  197 

thing  unostentatiously  and  with  a  reserve  which 
would  be  considered  excessive  even  for  a  private 
lady. 

None  of  the  court  ladies  knew  that  she  went  to 
hear  the  sermon  at  San  Luis  de  Francis  5  a  lady 
saw  her  there  for  the  first  time,  by  chance,  among 
the  other  worshippers.  In  her  dress  there  was  noth- 
ing distinctive  of  royalty,  not  even  on  the  days  of 
the  court  dinners.  Queen  Isabella  wore  a  great  red 
mantle  with  the  arms  of  Castile,  a  diadem,  orna- 
ments, and  insignia;  not  so  Donna  Victoria.  She 
usually  dressed  in  the  colors  of  the  Spanish  flag> 
with  a  simplicity  which  proclaimed  her  royalty  much 
better  than  splendor  and  magnificence  would  have 
done.  It  was  not  Spanish  gold  which  had  to  do 
with  this  simplicity :  all  the  expenses  which  were 
incurred  for  herself,  her  children,  and  her  servants 
were  paid  from  her  privy  purse. 

When  the  Bourbons  were  on  the  throne  the  whole 
of  the  royal  palace  was  occupied.  The  king  resided 
in  the  left  wing  toward  the  plaza  of  the  armory ; 
Montpensier  lived  in  the  part  opposite  to  that  of  the 
queen ;  the  princes  had  each  an  apartment  looking 
toward  the  garden  of  Moro.  When  King  Amadeus 
resided  there  a  great  part  of  the  immense  edifice  re- 
mained empty :  he  occupied  only  three  small  rooms 
— a  study,  a  bed-chamber,  and  a  dressing-room. 
His  chamber  opened  into  a  long  corridor  which 
led  to  the  two  little  rooms  of  the  princes,  opposite 


198  MADRID. 

to  which  was  the  queen's  apartments,  for  she  would 
never  be  separated  from  her  children. 

Then  there  was  a  reception-room.  All  that  part 
of  the  palace  which  served  for  the  entire  royal  fam- 
ily was  formerly  occupied  by  Queen  Isabella  alone. 
When  she  learned  that  Amadeus  and  Victoria  were 
content  with  such  small  quarters,  she  is  said  to  have 
exclaimed  with  astonishment,  "  Poor  young  things  ! 
they  won't  have  room  to  turn  around." 

The  king  and  queen  used  to  dine  with  a  major- 
domo  and  one  of  the  court  ladies.  After  dinner  the 
king  smoked  a  Virginia  cigar  (if  the  detractors  of 
this  prince  of  cigars  care  to  know  it)  and  entered  his 
cabinet  to  -attend  to  the  affairs  of  state.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  take  a  great  many  notes  and  frequently 
consulted  with  the  queen,  especially  when  he  was 
trying  to  reconcile  the  ministers  or  to  conciliate  the 
heads  of  departments.  He  read  a  great  many  mag- 
azines of  every  bias  ;  anonymous  letters  which  threat- 
ened him  with  death  and  those  which  gave  him  ad- 
vice j  satirical  poems,  schemes  of  social  revolution, — 
everything,  indeed,  that  was  sent  to  him.  About 
three  o'clock  he  left  the  palace  on  horseback ;  the 
guards  blew  their  trumpets  and  a  squire  in  red  liv- 
ery followed  him  at  SL  distance  of  fifty  paces.  To  see 
him  one  would  have  said  that  he  did  not  know  he 
was  the  king:  he  looked  at  the  children  as  they 
passed  him,  at  the  signs  of  the  shops,  the  soldiers, 
the  coaches,  and  the  fountains  with  an  expression 


MADRID.  199 

of  almost  childish  curiosity.  He  rode  the  whole 
length  of  the  street  Alcala  slowly,  like  an  ordinary 
citizen  thinking  of  his  own  affairs,  and  would  turn 
into  the  Prado  to  enjoy  his  part  of  the  air  and  the 
sunshine. 

The  ministers  clamored  against  it ;  the  Bourbons, 
accustomed  to  the  imposing  equipage  of  Isabella, 
said  that  he  was  trailing  the  majesty  of  the  throne 
of  San  Fernando  through  the  streets ;  even  the 
squire  who  followed  him  looked  around  with  a 
shamefaced  air,  as  if  to  say,  "  See  what  folly !" 
But  whatever  they  might  say,  the  king  gave  no  sign 
of  fear.  And  the  Spaniards,  it  must  be  said,  did 
him  justice,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  their 
opinion  of  his  administration  and  government,  they 
never  failed  to  add,  "  So  far  as  courage  goes,  there 
is  nothing  to  say." 

Every  Sunday  there  was  a  court  dinner.  Invi- 
tations were  extended  to  deputies,  professors, 
academicians,  and  illustrious  men  of  letters  and 
scientists.  The  queen  talked  with  them  all  on 
every  subject  with  a  confidence  and  grace  which, 
for  all  they  had  previously  heard  of  her  genius  and 
culture,  quite  exceeded  their  expectations.  The 
people  naturally  exaggerated  in  speaking  of  her  at- 
tainments, and  talked  of  Greek,  Arabic,  Sanskrit, 
astronomy,  and  mathematics.  But  true  it  is  that 
she  talked  intelligently  on  subjects  far  removed  from 
the  ordinary  course  of  feminine  studies,  and  not  in 


200  MADRID. 

the  evasive  and  superficial  manner  of  those  who 
know  only  the  names  and  titles.  She  had  made  a 
careful  study  of  the  Spanish  language,  and  finally 
spoke  it  as  though  it  were  her  own ;  the  history, 
literature,  and  customs  of  her  adopted  country  were 
alike  familiar  to  her,  and  she  lacked  only  the  desire 
to  remain  in  Spain  to  have  made  her  a  thorough 
Spaniard.  The  Liberals  murmured,  the  Bourbons 
said,  "  She  is  not  our  queen,"  but  they  all  regarded 
her  with  profound  respect.  The  bitterest  journals 
went  no  farther  than  to  call  her  the  wife  of  Amadeus 
instead  of  the  queen.  The  most  violent  of  the  Re- 
publican deputies  in  alluding  to  her  in  a  speech  at 
the  Cortes  could  do  no  less  than  pronounce  her  illus- 
trious and  virtuous.  She  was  the  only  person  of  the 
royal  household  against  whom  no  one  would  permit 
a  slur  either  by  tongue  or  pen.  She  was  like  a 
white  figure  left  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  spiteful 
caricatures. 

As  for  the  king,  it  seemed  as  though  the  Spanish 
press  enjoyed  an  unrestrained  liberty,  and  under  the 
safeguard  of  the  titles  the  Savoyard,  the  foreigner, 
and  the  young  courtier  the  journals  which  were 
opposed  to  his  rule  could  say  in  substance  whatever 
they  chose  ;  and  didn't  they  say  charming  things  ? 
One  took  it  to  heart  that  the  king  was  homely  in 
face  and  figure,  another  was  displeased  because  he 
walked  so  stiffly,  a  third  tried  to  ridicule  his  manner 
of  returning  a  salute,  and  other  trifling  matters 


MADRID.  201 

which  are  almost  incredible.  Nevertheless,  the 
people  of  Madrid  had  for  him,  if  not  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  Azenzia  Stefani,  at  least  a  very  real 
sympathy. 

The  simplicity  of  his  habits  and  his  kindhearted- 
ness  were  proverbial  even  among  the  children.  It 
was  known  that  he  bore  no  malice  toward  any,  not 
even  toward  those  who  had  treated  him  badly ;  that 
he  had  never  given  an  affront  to  any  one ;  that  no 
bitter  word  against  his  enemies  had  ever  escaped 
him.  If  one  spoke  of  the  personal  dangers  which 
he  incurred,  every  good  citizen  answered  indignantly 
that  the  Spanish  people  respect  those  who  trust 
them ;  his  bitterest  enemies  spoke  of  him  with 
anger,  but  not  with  odium;  the  very  men  who 
would  not  raise  their  hats  on  meeting  him  in  the 
street  felt  their  blood  boil  when  others  followed 
their  example,  and  could  not  conceal  a  feeling  of 
sadness  at  the  occurrence.  There  are  images  of 
fallen  kings  over  which  one  casts  a  dark  covering ; 
others  are  concealed  by  a  white  veil  which  makes 
them  appear  more  beautiful  and  venerable :  over 
this  one  Spain  has  cast  the  white  veil.  And  who 
knows  but  that  one  day  the  sight  of  this  image  will 
call  from  the  breast  of  every  honest  Spaniard  a 
secret  sigh,  like  the  memory  of  a  beloved  one  who 
has  been  offended,  or  like  a  gentle  and  benign  voice 
which  says  in  sad  tones  of  reproach,  "Neverthe- 
less, thou  hast  wronged  me"? 


202  MADRID. 

One  Sunday  the  king  held  a  review  of  the 
Volunteers  of  Liberty,  a  sort  of  national  guard  like 
that  of  Italy,  with  this  difference — that  the  Italians 
do  good  service  voluntarily,  while  the  Spaniards  will 
do  nothing  even  by  force. 

The  Voluntarios  were  drawn  up  along  the  avenue 
of  the  Prado,  where  an  immense  crowd  had  collected. 
When  I  arrived  there  were  already  three  or  four 
battalions  of  them.  The  first  was  the  battalion  of 
veterans,  all  men  above  fifty,  and  not  a  few  very  old, 
dressed  in  black  and  wearing  the  cap  a  la  Ros,  with 
gold  and  silver  lace  and  crosses  upon  crosses,  as 
spruce  and  tidy  as  the  students  of  a  military 
academy,  and  from  the  proud  and  dignified  rolling 
of  their  eyes  they  might  have  been  confounded  with 
the  grenadiers  of  the  Old  Guard.  After  them  came 
another  battalion  in  a  different  uniform — gray 
breeches,  a  coat  open  and  turned  back  over  the 
breast,  with  large  lapels  of  scarlet  cloth  ;  instead 
of  the  caps  a  la  Rosy  hats  with  blue  plumes — and 
carrying  guns  with  fixed  bayonets.  Another  battalion 
and  another  uniform — the  Ros  caps  again  instead  of 
the  hats,  and  green  cloth  instead  of  the  red,  breeches 
of  another  color,  and  daggers  instead  of  bayonets. 
A  fourth  battalion  and  arms  all  different.  Other 
battalions  come  up,  in  various  array.  Some  wear 
Prussian  helmets,  others  helmets  without  points ; 
some  carry  bayonets,  some  straight  daggers,  some 
curved  and  others  spiral  daggers}  here  there  are 


MADRID.  203 

soldiers  with  corded  coats,  there  those  without  cords, 
and  again  those  with  cords ;  belts,  epaulets,  cravats, 
plumes  ;  everything  changes  every  moment. 

All  the  divisions  are  gay  and  pompous,  with  a 
hundred  colors  and  a  hundred  banners  which  wave, 
flash,  and  float  in  the  air.  Every  battalion  has  a 
different  banner  covered  with  embroidery,  ribbons, 
and  fringe.  Among  the  others  one  sees  soldiers 
dressed  like  peasants  with  any  sort  of  a  stripe  sewed 
loosely  down  a  pair  of  ragged  trousers ;  some  with- 
out cravats,  some  with  black  cravats,  open  jackets, 
and  embroidered  tunics ;  boys  from  twelve  to 
fifteen,  armed  at  all  points,  walking  in  the  ranks ; 
vivandieres,  with  short  skirts  and  red  breeches, 
carrying  baskets  full  of  cigars  and  oranges.  At  the 
head  of  the  battalions  there  is  a  continual  hurrying 
of  mounted  officials.  Every  major  wears  on  his 
head  or  on  his  breast  or  on  his  saddle  some  ornament 
of  his  own  device ;  at  every  moment  a  courier  of 
some  unknown  corps  passes ;  one  sees  lace  of  liver, 
gold,  and  wool  on  the  arms,  on  the  shoulders,  and 
around  the  neck ;  medallions  and  crosses  so  thick 
that  they  conceal  half  the  breast,  fastened  one  above 
the  other,  both  above  and  below  the  belt ;  gloves  of 
all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow ;  sabres,  swords  little 
and  big,  pistols  and  revolvers — a  mixture,  in  short, 
of  all  the  uniforms  and  arms  of  every  army ;  a 
variety  that  would  appall  ten  ministerial  commis- 
sioners for  the  modification  of  dress ;  a  confusion 


204  MADRID. 

that  turns  one's  head.  I  do  not  remember  whether 
there  were  twelve  or  fourteen  battalions  j  as  each 
one  of  them  selected  its  own  uniform,  there  was 
necessarily  the  greatest  possible  diversity  among 
them.  They  were  commanded  by  the  mayor,  who 
also  wore  a  fantastic  uniform.  There  were  about 
eight  thousand  men. 

At  the  hour  assigned  a  sudden  scurrying  of  staff- 
officers  and  a  loud  blast  of  trumpets  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  king.  Amadeus  had,  in  fact,  arrived 
on  horseback  by  the  street  Alcala  in  the  uniform 
of  commander-in-chief,  with  cavalry  boots,  white 
breeches,  and  swallow-tail  coat,  and  behind  him  a 
closely-formed  group  of  generals,  aides-de-camp, 
servants  in  scarlet  livery,  lancers,  cuirassiers,  and 
guards.  After  he  had  reviewed  the  entire  front  of 
the  army  from  the  Prado  as  far  as  the  church  of 
Atocha,  surrounded  by  a  dense,  silent  crowd,  he  re- 
turned toward  the  street  Alcala.  Here  there  was  a 
vast  multitude  which  surged  and  murmured  like  the 
sea.  The  king  and  his  staff  took  their  stand  in 
front  of  the  church  of  San  Jose*,  with  their  backs 
toward  the  faqade,  and  the  cavalry  with  great  trouble 
succeeded  in  opening  a  narrow  space  through  which 
the  battalions  might  march. 

They  marched  in  platoons.  As  they  passed,  at  a 
signal  from  the  commander,  they  cried,  "  Viva  el 
Hey  !  Viva  Don  Amadco  primero  /"  It  was  an  un- 
fortunate idea  for  the  first  officer  to  give  the  cry. 


MADRID.  205 

The  spontaneous  cheer  of  the  first  became  a  duty  to 
all  the  others,  and  this  resulted  in  the  public  taking 
the  greater  and  the  less  vigor  and  harmony  of  the 
voices  as  a  sign  of  political  demonstration.  Some 
of  the  platoons  gave  such  a  weak,  short  cheer  that 
it  seemed  like  the  cry  of  a  group  of  sick  men  call- 
ing for  aid;  then  the  crowd  burst  out  laughing. 
Other  platoons  gave  a  deafening  shout,  and  that  was 
interpreted  as  a  demonstration  hostile  to  the  govern- 
ment. There  were  several  reports  passing  among 
the  people  crowded  about  me.  One  said,  "  There 
conies  such  a  battalion :  they  are  republicans ;  you 
will  see  they  will  not  cheer."  The  battalion  passed 
without  cheering.  The  people  coughed.  Another 
said,  "  It  is  an  outrage,  a  fault  of  education ;  I  don't 
like  Amadeus  much  myself,  but  I  keep  quiet  and  re- 
spect him."  There  was  some  disturbance.  A  young 
fellow  shouted  Viva  in  a  falsetto  voice,  and  a  caballero 
told  him  he  was  impertinent ;  he  resented  this,  and 
they  both  raised  their  hands,  whereupon  a  third  sep- 
arated them. 

Between  the  different  battalions  marched  citizens 
on  horseback ;  some  did  not  raise  their  hats  or  even 
look  toward  the  king,  and  then  one  might  hear  differ- 
ent expressions  through  the  crowd,  as  "  Well  done !" 
and  "  What  bad  manners  !"  Others,  whose  will  was 
good  enough  to  salute  him,  were  afraid  to  do  so,  and 
passed  with  bowed  head  and  blushing  face.  Others, 
on  the  contrary,  disgusted  by  the  spectacle,  made  a 


206  MADRID. 

courageous  demonstration  for  Amadeus  in  the  face 
of  them  all,  marching  past,  hat  in  hand,  and  looking 
first  respectfully  toward  the  king  and  then  fiercely 
toward  the  crowd  for  the  distance  of  ten  paces.  The 
king  sat  until  the  end  of  the  procession  motionless, 
with  an  unchanged  expression  of  serene  haughtiness. 
So  ended  the  review. 

This  national  militia,  although  it  is  not  so  dis- 
organized and  exhausted  as  ours,  is  nothing  more 
than  the  ghost  of  an  army :  the  ridiculous  has 
gnawed  at  its  very  roots ;  but  as  an  amusement  on  a 
holiday,  although  the  number  of  volunteers  is  much 
reduced  (they  numbered .  thirty  thousand  at  one 
time),  it  is  always  a  spectacle  which  far  surpasses 
all  the  flag-poles  and  red  rags  of  Signor  Ottino. 

THE  BULL-FIGHTS. 

The  thirty-first  of  March  inaugurates  the  spectacle 
of  the  bull-fights.  Let  us  discuss  them  at  leisure,  for 
they  form  a  worthy  subject. 

He  who  has  read  Baretti's  description  may  con- 
sider that  he  has  read  nothing.  Baretti  saw  only  the 
bull-fights  of  Lisbon,  which  are  mere  child's  play 
beside  those  of  Madrid.  Madrid  is  the  home  of  the 
art :  here  are  the  great  artists,  here  the  stupendous 
spectacles,  here  the  skilled  spectators,  here  the 
judges  who  distribute  the  honors.  The  circus  of 
Madrid  is  the  Theatre  della  Scala  of  the  art  of  bull- 
fighting. 


MADRID.  207 

The  inauguration  of  the  bull-tights  at  Madrid  is 
even  more  important  than  a  change  of  the  ministry. 
A  month  beforehand  the  news  spreads  throughout  all 
Spain :  from  Cadiz  to  Barcelona,  from  Bilbao  to  Al- 
meria,  in  the  palaces  of  the  grandees  and  the  cabins 
of  the  poor,  they  talk  only  of  the  artists  and  the  breed 
of  bulls  ;  they  arrange  fights  for  pleasure  between 
the  provinces  and  the  capital;  he  who  is  short  of 
money  begins  to  save  so  as  to  get  a  good  place  in 
the  circus  on  that  great  day ;  fathers  and  mothers 
promise  their  children  to  take  them  if  they  will 
study  well ;  lovers  make  similar  promises  to  their 
sweethearts ;  the  papers  assure  you  that  it  will  be  a 
good  season ;  the  famous  toreros,  who  already  begin 
to  appear  in  Madrid,  are  pointed  out  with  the  finger ; 
rumors  are  afloat  that  the  bulls  have  arrived,  and 
some  have  seen  them  or  have  arranged  to  do  so. 

There  are  bulls  from  the  pastures  of  the  duke  of 
Veragua,  the  marquis  de  Merced,  and  of  Her  Ex- 
cellency the  dowager  of  Villaseca,  prodigious  and 
terrible.  The  office  is  opened  to  receive  subscrip- 
tions ;  the  dilettanti  crowd  around,  together  with 
the  servants  of  the  noble  families,  the  brokers,  and 
friends  commissioned  by  the  absent.  The  first  day 
the  manager  has  received  fifty  thousand  francs,  on 
the  second  thirty  thousand,  and  a  hundred  thousand 
in  a  week.  Frascuelo,  the  famous  matador,  has  ar- 
rived ;  Cuco  has  arrived  ;  Calderon  has  arrived,  and 
all  the  others  three  days  before  the  time.  Thousands 


208  MADRID. 

of  people  can  talk  of  nothing  else ;  ladies  dream  of 
the  circus ;  ministers  have  no  thought  for  other 
affairs ;  old  dilettanti  can  hardly  contain  themselves  .• 
soon  laboring-men  stop  buying  their  cigarettes  to 
have  a  few  pennies  on  the  day  of  the  spectacle. 
Finally,  on  Saturday  morning,  before  dawn,  they 
commence  to  sell  tickets  in  a  room  on  the  street 
Alcala.  A  crowd  collects  before  the  doors  are 
opened,  yelling,  pushing,  and  knocking  each  other 
about ;  twenty  policemen  with  revolvers  in  their 
belts  are  scarcely  able  to  keep  decent  order; 
there  is  a  continuous  stream  of  people  until 
night. 

The  long-expected  day  has  arrived.  The  spec- 
tacle commences  at  three  o'clock  ;  at  noon  the  people 
start  from  all  directions  toward  the  circus,  which 
stands  at  the  edge  of  the  suburb  of  Salamanca, 
beyond  the  Prado,  outside  of  the  gate  of  Alcala ; 
all  the  streets  which  lead  there  are  crowded  with  a 
procession  of  people.  The  circus  looks  like  a  great 
anthill ;  troops  of  soldiers  and  Volunteers  of  Liberty 
arrive,  headed  by  bands  of  music ;  a  crowd  of 
water-carriers  and  orange-sellers  fill  the  air  with 
their  cries ;  ticket-sellers  run  here  and  there,  hailed 
by  a  thousand  voices.  Woe  for  him  who  has  not 
yet  bought  his  ticket !  He  will  pay  double,  treble, 
quardruple  !  But  what  cares  he  if  a  ticket  costs 
even  fifty  or  eighty  francs  f  They  are  looking  for 
the  king ;  they  say  the  queen  is  coming  too.  The 


MADRID.  209 

chariots  of  the  great  guns  begin  to  arrive ;  the 
duke  Ferdinando  Nunes,  the  duke  d'Abrantes,  the 
marquis  de  la  Vega  de  Armijo,  a  crowd  of  the 
grandees  of  Spain,  the  goddesses  of  the  aristocracy, 
the  ministers,  generals,  and  ambassadors — all  that  is 
beautiful,  splendid,  and  powerful  in  the  great  city. 
One  may  enter  the  circus  by  many  doors,  but  before 
entering  one  is  deafened  by  the  noise. 

I  entered.  The  circus  is  immense.  The  outside 
is  in  no  way  remarkable  ;  it  is  a  low  circular  yellow 
building  without  windows,  but  on  entering  one  feels 
the  liveliest  surprise.  It  is  a  circus  for  a  people, 
where  ten  thousand  spectators  can  be  seated  and  in 
which  a  regiment  of  cavalry  might  drill.  The  arena 
is  circular,  and  so  vast  that  it  could  hold  ten  of  our 
equestrian  circuses.  It  is  encircled  by  a  wooden 
barrier  about  even  with  a  man's  shoulders,  provided 
on  the  inside  with  a  narrow  ledge  a  little  way  from 
the  ground,  on  which  the  toreros  place  their  feet  to 
jump  over  when  the  bull  chases  them.  Beyond  this 
barrier  there  is  another  higher  one,  for  the  bull  often 
leaps  over  the  first ;  between  the  two  a  narrow 
course,  a  little  more  than  a  metre  in  width,  runs  all 
the  way  round  the  arena ;  here  the  toreros  stroll 
before  the  combat,  and  here  stand  the  attendants  of 
the  circus — the  carpenters  ready  to  repair  the  gaps 
which  the  bull  has  made,  the  guards,  the  orange- 
venders,  the  dilettanti  who  enjoy  the  friendship  of 
the  manager,  and  the  great  guns  who  are  allowed  to 

VOL.  I.— 14 


210  MADRID. 

transgress  the  rules.  Beyond  the  second  barrier 
rises  a  tier  of  stone  seats,  and  beyond  this  are  the 
boxes;  below  the  boxes  runs  a  gallery  containing 
three  rows  of  seats.  The  boxes  are  each  large 
enough  to  hold  three  or  four  families;  the  king's 
box  is  a  great  drawing-room ;  next  to  it  is  that  of 
the  city  officials,  in  which  sits  the  mayor  or  whoever 
presides  at  the  spectacle.  Then  there  is  the  box 
for  the  ministers,  for  the  governors,  and  for  the 
ambassadors ;  every  noble  family  has  one ;  the 
young  bon  tons,  as  Giusti  would  say,  have  a  box  to 
themselves ;  then  there  are  boxes  to  let  which  cost 
a  fortune. 

Every  seat  in  the  tiers  is  numbered,  every  person 
has  a  ticket ;  so  the  entrance  is  made  without  the 
least  disorder.  The  circus  is  divided  into  two  parts 
—one  in  the  shade,  the  other  in  the  sunshine ;  in 
the  first  one  pays  more ;  in  the  second  sit  the 
common  people.  The  arena  has  four  doors  at  equal 
distances  from  each  other — the  door  through  which 
the  toreros  enter,  the  door  for  the  bulls,  another  for 
the  horses,  and  a  fourth,  under  the  king's  box,  for 
the  heralds  of  the  spectacle.  Over  the  door  through 
which  the  bulls  enter  rises  a  sort  of  sloping  platform 
which  is  called  the  toril,  and  well  for  him  who  can 
find  a  place  there !  Upon  this  platform,  in  a  little 
box,  stand  the  men  who  at  a  sign  from  the  mayor's 
box  sound  the  trumpet  and  drum  to  announce  the 
entrance  of  the  bull.  Facing  the  toril  on  the  oppo- 


MADRID.  211 

site  side  of  the  arena  along  the  stone  balcony  is  the 
band  of  music.  The  whole  balcony  is  divided  into 
compartments,  each  of  which  has  its  own  door. 

Before  the  show  begins  the  people  are  allowed  to 
enter  the  arena  and  to  walk  through  all  the  passages 
of  the  building.  They  go  to  see  the  horses  enclosed 
in  a  courtyard,  and  most  of  them  destined  to  be 
killed,  more's  the  pity !  They  go  to  see  the  dark 
chambers  where  are  confined  the  bulls,  which  are 
driven  from  one  enclosure  to  another  until  they 
reach  a  corridor  and  dash  into  the  arena ;  they  go  to 
see  the  infirmary  where  the  wounded  toreros  are 
borne :  once  there  was  a  chapel  to  visit  in  which 
mass  was  celebrated  during  the  combat,  and  there 
the  toreros  went  to  pray  before  confronting  the  an- 
gry brutes ;  then  they  go  to  the  principal  entrance, 
where  are  exhibited  the  bandcrillas  that  are  to  be 
inserted  in  the  bulls'  necks,  and  where  one  sees  a 
group  of  old  toreros — one  lame,  another  without  an 
arm,  a  third  on  crutches — and  the  young  toreros  who 
have  not  yet  been  admitted  to  the  honors  of  the 
circus  of  Madrid.  One  buys  a  copy  of  the  Bulletin 
of  the  Bulls,  which  promises  miracles  for  the  doings 
of  the  day.  Then  one  gets  from  the  guard  the 
programme  of  the  spectacle  and  a  printed  leaflet 
divided  into  columns  for  noting  the  strokes  of  the 
spear,  the  thrusts,  the  falls,  and  the  wounds.  One 
climbs  along  endless  corridors  and  interminable 
stairways  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  which  comes  and 


212  MADRID. 

goes,  ascends  and  descends,  crying  and  shouting,  BO 
that  the  whole  building  trembles,  and  finally  one 
returns  to  one's  seat. 

The  circus  is  crowded  full,  and  presents  a  spectacle 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  form  an  idea  unless  one 
has  seen  it :  it  is  a  sea  of  heads,  hats,  fans,  and 
hands  waving  in  the  air ;  on  the  side  where  sit  the 
better  classes  in  the  shade  all  is  dark ;  on  the  other 
side,  in  the  sun,  where  the  common  people  sit,  a 
thousand  brilliant  colors  of  vesture,  parasols,  and 
paper  fans — an  immense  masquerade. 

There  is  not  room  enough  for  another  child ;  the 
crowd  is  as  compact  as  a  phalanx ;  no  one  can  go 
out,  and  it  is  difficult  even  to  move  one's  arms.  It 
is  not  a  buzzing  like  the  noise  of  other  theatres  |  it 
is  different :  it  is  an  agitation,  a  life  altogether  pecu- 
liar to  the  circus  ;  everybody  is  shouting,  gesticula- 
ting, and  saluting  each  other  with  frantic  joy ;  the 
women  and  children  scream  ;  the  gravest  men  frolic 
like  boys ;  the  young  men,  in  groups  of  twenty  and 
thirty,  shout  in  chorus  and  beat  with  their  canes 
against  the  stone  balustrade  as  a  sign  to  the  mayor 
that  the  hour  has  arrived.  In  the  boxes  there  is  an 
overflow  of  spirits,  like  that  in  the  galleries  of  the 
regular  theatres ;  the  discordant  cries  of  the  crowd 
are  augmented  by  the  howls  of  a  hundred  hawkers, 
who  are  throwing  oranges  in  every  direction ;  the 
band  plays,  the  bulls  bellow,  the  crowd  outside 
roars ;  it  is  a  spectacle  which  makes  one  dizzy,  and 


MADRID.  213 

before  the  struggle  commences  one  is  exhausted, 
intoxicated,  and  stupefied. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  cry,  "  The  king  !"  The  king 
has  arrived ;  he  is  come  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  white 
horses,  with  mounted  grooms  in  picturesque  Anda- 
lusian  costumes;  the  glass  doors  of  the  royal  box 
swing  back,  and  the  king  enters  with  a  stately  crowd 
of  ministers,  generals,  and  major-domos.  The  queen 
is  not  there :  one  foresaw  that ;  every  one  knows 
that  she  has  a  horror  of  this  spectacle.  Oh  !  but  the 
king  would  not  miss  it ;  he  has  always  come.  They 
say  he  is  mad  over  it.  The  hour  has  come,  the  spec- 
tacle begins.  I  shall  remember  to  my  dying  day  the 
chill  which  passed  over  me  at  that  moment. 

A  blare  of  trumpets ;  four  guards  of  the  circus  on 
horseback,  with  cap  and  plume  a  la  Henri  IV.,  with 
black  mantles,  tight-fitting  jackets,  jack-boots,  and 
swords,  enter  by  the  gate  under  the  king's  box  and 
slowly  make  the  circuit  of  the  arena.  The  people 
separate ;  every  one  goes  to  his  seat ;  the  arena  is 
deserted.  The  four  cavaliers  take  their  places,  two 
by  two,  in  front  of  the  door  opposite  the  royal  box, 
which  is  still  closed. 

Ten  thousand  spectators  fix  their  eyes  on  that 
spot ;  there  is  a  universal  silence.  For  through  it  will 
come  the  cuadrilla,  with  all  the  toreros  in  gala  dress 
to  present  themselves  to  the  king  and  the  people. 
The  band  plays,  the  door  springs  open,  there  is  a 
burst  of  applause  ;  the  toreros  advance.  First  come 


214  MADRID. 

the  three  espadas,  Frascuelo,  Lagartijo,  and  Caye- 
tano,  the  three  famous  ones,  dressed  in  the  costume 
of  Figaro  in  the  Barber  of  Seville,  in  satin,  silk,  and 
velvet,  orange,  scarlet,  and  blue,  covered  with  em- 
broidery, fringe,  lace,  filigree,  tinsel,  spangles  of 
gold  and  silver,  which  almost  conceal  their  dress ; 
enveloped  in  full  capes  of  yellow  and  red,  with  white 
stockings,  silken  girdles,  a  bunch  of  tassels  on  the 
neck,  and  a  fur  cap.  Next  come  the  bandcrillcros 
and  the  capcadorcs,  a  troop  covered  like  the  others 
with  gold  and  silver  5  then  the  picadores,  on  horse- 
back, two  by  two,  each  with  a  great  battle-lance,  a 
low-crowned  gray  hat,  an  embroidered  jacket, 
breeches  of  yellow  buffalo  skin,  padded  and  lined 
inside  with  strips  of  iron ;  then  the  chulos,  or  ser- 
vants, dressed  in  their  holiday  best ;  and  altogether 
they  walk  majestically  across  the  arena  toward  the 
box  of  the  king.  One  cannot  imagine  anything 
more  picturesque  than  this  spectacle :  there  are  all 
the  colors  of  a  garden,  all  the  splendors  of  a  royal 
court,  all  the  gayety  of  a  rout  of  maskers,  all  the 
grandeur  of  a  band  of  warriors ;  on  closing  one's 
eyes  one  sees  only  a  gleaming  of  gold  and  silver. 
They  are  very  handsome  men — the  picadorcs  tall, 
stout  of  limb  like  athletes ;  the  others  slight  and 
nimble,  with  chiselled  forms,  swarthy  faces,  and  great 
fierce  eyes — figures  like  the  ancient  gladiators, 
clothed  with  the  magnificence  of  Asiatic  princes. 
The  entire  cuadrilla  stops  in  front  of  the  royal 


Implanting  the  Bandillera. 


The  Charge. 


MADRID.  215 

box  and  salutes ;  the  mayor  makes  a  sign  that  they 
may  begin ;  the  key  of  the  toril,  where  the  bulls  are 
confined,  is  tossed  from  the  box  into  the  arena ;  a 
guard  of  the  circus  picks  it  up  and  gives  it  to  the 
custodian,  who  places  himself  before  the  door  ready 
to  open  it.  The  band  of  toreros  separates,  the  es- 
padas  leap  over  the  barrier,  the  capeadores  scatter 
through  the  arena,  waving  their  red  and  yellow 
capas  ,-  the  picadores  retire  to  await  their  turn ;  the 
rest  spur  their  horses  and  take  their  positions  to  the 
left  of  the  tor II  at  a  distance  of  twenty  paces  apart, 
with  their  backs  to  the  barrier  and  their  lances  in 
rest. 

It  is  a  moment  of  keen  excitement,  of  unexpres- 
sible  anxiety  :  all  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  door  by 
which  the  bull  will  enter;  all  hearts  are  beating 
high ;  a  profound  silence  broods  over  the  whole 
circus ;  one  hears  only  the  bellowing  of  the  bull  as 
he  advances  from  cell  to  cell  in  the  darkness  of  his 
vast  prison;  one  can  almost  hear  him  crying, 
"  Blood !  blood !"  The  horses  tremble,  the  picadores 
grow  pale :  another  instant  a  blare  of  trumpets,  the 
door  is  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  terrible  bull 
dashes  into  the  arena  saluted  by  a  terrific  shout, 
which  bursts  at  that  moment  from  ten  thousand 
throats.  The  butchery  has  begun. 

Ah  !  it  is  a  good  thing  to  have  strong  nerves  :  at 
that  moment  one  turns  as  white  as  a  corpse. 

I  can  only  remember  confusedly  what  followed  in 


216  MADRID. 

the  first  instance:  I  do  not  know  where  I  could 
have  been.  The  bull  rushed  against  the  first 
picador,  retreated,  continued  his  course,  and  rushed 
upon  the  second ;  if  there  was  a  struggle,  I  do  not 
remember  it ;  then  a  moment  later  he  rushed  against 
the  third,  ran  to  the  centre  of  the  arena,  stood  and 
looked  about  him :  I  too  looked  about  and  covered 
my  face  with  my  hands.  All  that  part  of  the  arena 
where  the  bull  had  passed  was  streaked  with  blood ; 
the  first  horse  lay  dead  on  the  ground  with  his  belly 
ripped  open  and  his  entrails  scattered  about ;  the 
second,  with  his  breast  torn  by  a  deep  gash  from 
which  blood  was  streaming,  staggered  about  here 
and  there  ;  the  third  was  thrown  to  the  ground  and 
tried  in  vain  to  rise ;  the  chulos  hurried  in,  raised 
the  picadores  from  the  ground,  took  the  saddle  and 
bridle  from  the  dead  horse,  and  tried  to  help  the 
wounded  one  to  his  feet :  an  infernal  yell  resounded 
from  every  part  of  the  circus ;  thus  the  spectacle 
usually  begins.  The  first  to  receive  the  onslaught 
of  the  bull  are  the  picadores  ;  they  sit  firmly  await- 
ing him  and  plant  the  lance  between  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  the  bull  as  he  is  in  the  act  of  fastening 
his  horns  in  the  horse.  The  lance,  be  it  noted,  has 
only  a  small  point,  which  cannot  make  a  deep  wound, 
and  the  picadores  are  obliged  by  sheer  force  of  arm 
to  ward  off  the  bull  and  save  their  steeds.  To  do 
this  one  must  have  a  sure  eye,  an  arm  of  bronze, 
and  a  dauntless  heart ;  they  do  not  always  succeed ; 


MADRID.  217 

indeed,  they  usually  fail,  and  the  bull  plants  his 
horns  in  the  horse's  belly  and  the  picador  is  thrown 
to  the  ground.  Then  the  capeadores  run  forward,  and 
while  the  bull  is  shaking  his  horns  free  from  the 
entrails  of  his  victim  they  wave  their  capos  be- 
fore his  eyes,  turn  his  attention,  make  him  follow 
them  and  leave  the  fallen  horseman  in  safety  5 
whereupon  the  chulos  come  to  his  aid,  and  help  him 
again  into  the  saddle  if  the  horse  can  still  stand,  or 
carry  him  off  to  the  infirmary  if  he  has  broken  his 
head. 

The  bull  stood  panting  in  the  middle  of  the  arena 
with  bloody  horns,  looking  around  as  if  to  say, 
"  Have  you  had  enough  ?"  A  band  of  capeadores 
ran  toward  him,  surrounded  him,  and  commenced  to 
tease  and  badger  him,  making  him  rush  here  and 
there,  waving  their  capas  before  his  eyes,  passing 
them  over  his  head,  leading  him  on,  and  escaping 
with  the  nimblest  turns,  to  return  to  tease  him  again, 
and  again  flee  from  him.  And  the  bull  turns  on 
them  one  after  another,  and  chases  them  as  far  as 
the  barrier,  where  he  butts  his  horns  against  the 
boards,  stamps,  cuts  capers,  bellows,  buries  his 
horns  in  the  bodies  of  the  dead  horses  as  he  passes, 
tries  to  jump  into  the  course,  and  rushes  around  the 
arena  in  every  direction.  Meanwhile  the  other 
picadores  come  in  to  take  the  places  of  the  two 
whose  horses  had  been  killed,  and  take  their  po- 
sitions at  some  distance  from  each  other,  over  beside 


218  MADRID. 

the  toril  with  lances  in  rest,  ready  for  the  attack  of 
the  bull.  The  capeadores  dextrously  draw  him  in 
that  direction,  and,  seeing  the  first  horse,  he  made  a 
plunge  toward  him  with  lowered  head.  But  this  time 
his  blow  was  parried :  the  lance  of  the  picador  was 
fixed  in  his  shoulder  and  checked  him. 

The  bull  was  stubborn ;  he  strained  and  lunged 
forward  with  all  his  weight ;  but  in  vain :  the 
picador  held  firm,  the  bull  retreated,  the  horse  was 
saved,  and  a  thunderous  burst  of  applause  greeted 
the  man.  The  other  picador  was  less  fortunate : 
the  bull  attacked ;  he  did  not  succeed  in  planting 
his  lance  firmly ;  the  terrible  horns  penetrated  the 
horse's  belly  as  quickly  as  a  sword  might  have  done, 
were  violently  twisted  in  the  wound,  and  withdrawn  ; 
the  intestines  of  the  poor  animal  fell  through  and 
remained  dangling,  like  a  great  bag,  almost  down  to 
the  ground;  the  picador  remained  in  the  saddle. 
There  a  horrible  sight  was  witnessed.  Instead  of 
dismounting,  the  picador,  perceiving  that  the  wound 
was  not  mortal,  put  the  spurs  to  the  horse  and  rode 
to  another  place  to  await  a  second  attack :  the  horse 
crossed  the  arena  with  his  entrails  hanging  from  his 
belly,  striking  against  his  legs,  and  impeding  his 
steps.  The  bull  followed  for  a  moment  and  stopped. 
At  that  point  there  was  blast  on  the  trumpets :  it 
was  the  signal  for  the  picadorcs  to  withdraw.  A 
gate  was  opened,  and  they  galloped  out  one  after 
another ;  the  two  dead  horses  were  left,  and  here  and 


MADRID.  219 

there  were  pools  and  streaks  of    blood  which  two 
clmlos  covered  with  earth. 

After  the  picadores  come  the  banderilleros.  And 
to  the  uninitiated  this  part  of  the  performance  is  the 
most  entertaining,  for  the  reason  that  it  is  the  least 
cruel.  The  banderittas  are  little  arrows  about  two 
spans  in  length,  ornamented  with  colored  paper  and 
provided  with  a  metal  tip  so  formed  that  when  it 
once  penetrates  the  skin  it  cannot  be  withdrawn, 
and  the  bull  with  his  running  and  shaking  only 
drives  it  farther  in.  The  banderillero  takes  two  of 
these  arrows,  one  in  each  hand,  and  assumes  a  posi- 
tion about  fifteen  paces  distant  from  the  bull,  and 
then,  by  waving  his  hands  and  shouting,  provokes 
an  attack.  The  bull  rushes  toward  him :  the  ban- 
derillero in  his  turn  runs  toward  the  bull,  and  just  as 
the  bull's  head  is  lowered  to  plunge  his  horns  into 
the  man's  body  the  banderillero  plants  the  arrows  in 
his  neck,  one  on  this  side,  the  other  on  that,  and 
saves  himself  by  a  quick  turn.  If  he  stops,  if  his 
foot  slips,  if  he  hesitates  an  instant,  he  will  be 
spitted  like  a  frog.  The  bull  bellows,  snorts,  tosses 
himself,  and  turns  with  dreadful  fury  to  follow  the 
capeadorcs.  In  a  minute  they  have  all  jumped  into 
the  course ;  the  arena  is  cleared,  and  the  brute,  with 
foaming  mouth,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  neck  streaked 
with  blood,  stamps  the  ground,  shakes  himself,  runs 
at  the  barrier,  demands  vengeance,  thirsts  for  blood 
and  slaughter :  no  one  appears  to  confront  him  ;  the 


220  MADRID. 

spectators  fill  the  air  with  the  cry,  "  Forward ! 
courage !"  "  The  next  banderilkro  /"  The  next 
banderillero  advances  and  plants  his  arrows,  then  a 
third,  and  then  the  first  again.  On  that  day  there 
were  eight  arrows  inserted.  The  poor  beast,  when 
he  felt  the  last  two,  gave  a  long  bellow,  distressing 
and  horrible,  and,  dashing  after  one  of  his  enemies, 
followed  him  to  the  barrier,  took  the  leap,  and  fell 
with  him  into  the  course.  The  ten  thousand 
spectators  were  all  on  their  feet  in  an  instant,  cry- 
ing, "  He  has  killed  him !"  But  the  banderillero 
had  escaped.  The  bull  ran  backward  and  forwarded 
between  the  two  barriers  under  a  rain  of  blows  and 
thrusts,  until  he  was  driven  to  an  open  gate  and 
returned  to  the  arena  as  the  gate  closed  after  him. 
Then  all  the  banderiUeros  and  all  the  capeadorcs 
rushed  toward  him  again :  one  passed  behind  and 
gave  his  tail  a  jerk,  and  disappeared  like  a  flash  of 
lightning ;  another  as  he  flew  past  wound  a  capa 
around  his  horns  j  a  third  actually  had  the  audacity 
to  snatch  off  with  one  hand  a  little  silk  bow  which 
was  tied  to  his  tail ;  a  fourth,  the  most  rash  of  them 
all,  planted  a  pole  in  the  ground  as  the  bull  was 
running,  took  a  flying  leap,  and  passed  entirely  over 
him  and  landed  on  the  other  side,  throwing  the 
stick  between  the  legs  of  the  astonished  animal ; 
and  they  did  all  this  with  the  quickness  of  jugglers 
and  the  grace  of  dancers,  as  though  they  were  play- 
ing with  a  lamb.  Meanwhile,  the  immense  crowd 


The  Processional  Entrance. 


Bull  Attacking  a  Picador. 


MADRID.  221 

made  the  circus  resound  with  their  laughter  and 
applause  and  cries  of  delight,  admiration,  and 
terror. 

Another  blast  of  the  trumpet ;  the  banderilleros  are 
done.  Now  for  the  espada.  It  is  a  solemn  moment, 
the  crisis  of  the  drama.  The  crowd  is  still,  the 
ladies  lean  forward  in  their  boxes,  the  king  rises  to 
his  feet.  The  famous  Frascuelo,  holding  in  one  hand 
the  sword  and  in  the  other  the  muleta,  a  piece  of  red 
stuff  fastened  to  a  stick,  enters  the  arena,  presents 
himself  before  the  royal  box,  raises  his  cap,  and  in 
a  poetic  phrase  consecrates  to  the  king  the  bull  that 
he  is  about  to  kill ;  then,  tossing  his  cap  in  the  air, 
as  if  to  say,  "  Victory  or  death !"  followed  by  a 
splendid  train  of  capeadorcs,  he  advances  resolutely 
toward  the  bull.  Here  follows  a  veritable  hand- 
to-hand  struggle  worthy  of  Homer's  song.  On  one 
side  is  the  brute  with  his  terrible  horns,  with  his 
enormous  strength,  his  thirst  for  blood,  maddened  by 
pain,  blinded  by  rage,  fierce,  bloody,  terrible ;  on 
the  other,  a  young  man  of  twenty,  dressed  like  a 
dancer,  on  foot,  alone  and  defenceless  but  for  the 
short,  slender  sword  in  his  hand.  But  the  gaze  of 
twenty  thousand  eyes  is  bent  upon  him.  The  king 
has  a  gift  at  hand ;  his  sweetheart  is  above  there  in 
a  box,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him ;  a  thousand 
ladies  are  trembling  for  his  life.  The  bull  pauses 
and  looks  at  him ;  he  looks  at  the  bull  and  waves 
the  red  cloth  before  him.  The  bull  dashes  under  it ; 


222  MADRID. 

the  espada  springs  aside ;  that  terrible  horn  grazes 
his  hip,  strikes  the  red  cloth,  and  cleaves  the  empty 
air.  A  shout  of  applause  bursts  from  the  entire 
balcony,  from  all  the  boxes  and  galleries.  The 
ladies  raise  their  opera-glasses  and  cry,  "  He  has  not 
paled !" 

All  is  silence  again ;  there  is  not  a  sound ;  not  a 
whisper.  The  bold  torero  flutters  the  muleta  before 
the  eyes  of  the  infuriated  animal,  passes  it  overhead 
between  his  horns  and  around  his  neck,  makes  him 
recede,  advance,  turn,  jump ;  invites  an  attack  ten 
times,  and  ten  times  by  the  slightest  motion  escapes 
death ;  lets  his  muleta  fall,  and  picks  it  up  under 
the  eyes  of  the  bull ;  laughs  in  his  face,  taunts  him, 
insults  him,  and  makes  sport  of  him  :  all  at  once  he 
stops,  puts  himself  on  guard,  raises  his  sword,  and 
takes  aim ;  the  bull  looks  at  him  ;  another  instant 
and  they  will  rush  toward  each  other.  One  of  them 
must  die  ;  ten  thousand  glances  run  with  lightning 
rapidity  from  the  point  of  the  sword  to  the  tips  of 
the  horns ;  ten  thousand  hearts  beat  fast  with  anx- 
iety and  terror ;  the  faces  are  all  tense  with  excite- 
ment ;  one  does  not  hear  a  breath  ;  the  vast  crowd 
seems  petrified.  Another  instant — the  time  has 
come !  The  bull  dashes  forward ;  the  man  bran- 
dishes his  sword  ;  a  single  loud  cry,  and  then  a  tem- 
pestuous burst  of  applause  breaks  forth  on  every 
side  ;  the  sword  has  been  buried  to  its  hilt  in  the 
bull's  neck ;  the  bull  reels  and  with  a  stream  of 


MADRID.  223 

blood  flowing  from  his  mouth  falls  as  though  he  had 
been  struck  by  lightning. 

The  man  has  conquered !  Then  follows  an  inde- 
scribable tumult 5  the  multitude  seems  to  grow  mad ; 
all  leap  to  their  feet,  wave  their  arms,  and  cry 
at  the  top  of  their  voices ;  the  ladies  wave  their 
handkerchiefs,  clap  their  hands,  and  shake  their 
fans  ;  the  band  strikes  up  ;  the  victorious  cspada  ap- 
proaches the  barrier  and  makes  the  circuit  of  the 
arena.  As  he  passes,  from  the  galleries,  the  boxes, 
and  the  balconies  the  spectators,  carried  away  by 
their  enthusiasm,  shower  upon  him  packages  of  ci- 
gars, purses,  canes,  hats,  anything  which  they  can 
lay  their  hands  on ;  in  a  few  moments  the  fortunate 
torero  has  his  arms  full  of  trophies,  calls  the  capea- 
dorcs  to  his  assistance,  throws  back  the  hats  to  his 
admirers,  thanks  them,  and  responds  as  well  as  he 
can  to  the  salutes,  the  praises,  and  the  glorious  titles 
with  which  he  is  hailed  upon  every  side,  and  finally 
comes  to  the  royal  box. 

Then  all  eyes  are  riveted  on  the  king.  The  king 
puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  takes  out  a  cigar-case 
full  of  bank-notes,  and  tosses  it  down ;  the  torero 
catches  it  in  the  air,  and  the  multitude  bursts  into 
applause.  Meanwhile  the  band  is  playing  a  dirge 
for  the  bull ;  a  gate  opens,  four  enormous  mules  gal- 
lop in,  ornamented  with  plumes,  tassels,  and  ribbons 
of  yellow  and  red,  driven  by  a  band  of  cliulos,  who 
shout  and  crack  their  whips;  the  dead  horses  are 


224  MADRID. 

drawn  out  one  after  another,  and  finally  the  bull  is 
removed,  whereupon  he  is  at  once  carried  to  a  little 
square  near  the  circus,  where  a  crowd  of  gamins  is 
waiting  to  dip  their  fingers  in  his  blood,  after  which 
he  is  flayed,  butchered,  and  sold. 

The  arena  is  again  free ;  the  trumpet  sounds,  the 
drum  beats :  another  bull  dashes  from  his  prison, 
attacks  the  picadores,  rips  up  the  bellies  of  horses, 
offers  his  neck  to  the  banderilleros,  and  is  killed  by 
an  espada  •  and  so,  without  any  intermission,  six 
bulls  are  presented  in  the  arena  one  after  the 
other. 

How  many  shocks,  how  many  tremors,  how  many 
chills  at  the  heart  and  rushes  of  blood  to  the  head 
does  one  feel  during  that  spectacle !  how  many  sud- 
den pallors  !  But  you,  stranger,  you  alone  are  pale ; 
the  boy  beside  you  is  laughing,  the  girl  in  front  of 
you  is  wild  with  delight,  the  lady  whom  you  see  in 
the  next  box  says  she  has  never  enjoyed  herself  so 
much.  What  shouting !  what  exclamations  !  That 
is  the  place  to  learn  the  language  !  As  the  bull  ap- 
pears he  is  judged  by  a  thousand  voices  :  "  What  a 
fine  head !  what  eyes !  he  will  draw  blood !  he  is 
worth  a  fortune !"  They  break  out  into  words  of 
love.  He  has  killed  a  horse.  "  Bueno !  see  how 
much  has  fallen  from  the  belly  !"  A  picador  misses 
his  stroke  and  wounds  the  bull  badly  or  is  afraid  to 
confront  him ;  then  there  is  a  deluge  of  insulting 
names :  "  Poltroon  !  imposter !  assasin !  go  hide 


MADRID.  225 

yourself!  go  and  be  hanged!"  They  all  rise,  point 
with  their  fingers,  shake  their  fists,  throw  orange- 
peel  and  cigar-stumps  in  his  face,  and  threaten  him 
with  their  canes.  When  the  espada  kills  the  bull 
with  one  stroke,  then  follow  the  delirious  words  of 
lovers  and  extravagant  gestures  :  "Come  here,  angel! 
God  bless  thee,  Frascuelo !"  They  throw  him  kisses, 
call  to  him,  and  stretch  out  their  hands  as  if  to  em- 
brace him.  What  a  profusion  of  epithets,  witti- 
cisms, and  proverbs  !  What  fire  !  what  life  ! 

But  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  doings  of  one  bull ; 
in  the  entire  corrida  a  thousand  accidents  occur. 
In  that  same  day  a  bull  thrust  his  head  under  a 
horse's  belly,  raised  the  horse  and  horseman,  and, 
carrying  them  in  triumph  across  the  arena,  threw 
them  both,  to  the  ground  like  a  bundle  of  rags. 
Another  bull  killed  four  horses  in  a  few  minutes ;  a 
third  attacked  a  picador  so  violently  that  he  fell, 
struck  his  head  against  the  barrier,  fainted,  and  was 
carried  out.  But  not  for  this  nor  for  a  graver 
wound,  nor  even  for  the  death  of  a  torero,  is  the 
spectacle  interrupted — it  is  so  stated  in  the  pro- 
gramme ;  if  one  is  killed,  another  is  ready.  The 
bull  does  not  always  attack;  there  are  some 
cowardly  ones  which  run  toward  the  picador,  stop, 
and  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  run  away  ;  others, 
naturally  gentle  and  placid,  do  not  in  the  least 
respond  to  provocations ;  they  allow  the  picador  to 
approach  them  to  plant  his  lance  in  their  neck,  back 

VOL.  I.— 15 


226  MADRID. 

off,  shake  their  heads  as  if  to  say,  "  No,  thank  you !" 
run  away,  and  then  turn  suddenly  to  look  with 
astonishment  at  the  band  of  capeadores  who  follow 
them,  as  though  they  would  ask,  "  What  do  you 
want  of  us  I  What  have  we  done  ?  Why  do  you 
wish  to  kill  us  ?"  Then  the  crowd  bursts  forth  in 
imprecations  against  the  cowardly  bulls,  against  the 
managers,  and  against  the  toreros ;  and  first  one  of 
the  dilettanti  over  the  tortl,  then  the  spectators  on 
the  sunny  side,  then  the  gentlemen  on  the  shady 
side,  then  the  ladies,  then  all  the  spectators  in  the 
circus,  cry  with  one  voice,  "  Bander  illas  de  fuego  /" 
The  cry  is  directed  toward  the  mayor.  The  bande- 
rillas  of  fire  serve  to  infuriate  the  bull ;  they  are  ban- 
derillas  provided  with  a  fire-cracker,  which  goes  off 
at  the  moment  the  point  penetrates  the  flesh  and 
burns  the  wound,  causing  extreme  pain ;  the  animal 
is  tortured  and  enraged  to  the  point  of  changing 
from  a  coward  to  a  daredevil,  from  quietness  to  fury. 
The  permission  of  the  mayor  is  required  to  use 
the  banderillas  de  fuego :  if  he  hesitates  to  give  it, 
all  the  spectators  leap  to  their  feet,  and  there  follows 
a  wonderful  sight :  one  sees  ten  thousand  handker- 
chiefs waving  like  the  ensigns  of  ten  regiments  of 
lancers,  from  the  boxes  to  the  arena,  all  the  way 
around,  forming  a  fluttering  band  of  white  which 
almost  conceals  the  crowd,  and  ten  thousand  voices 
cry,  "  Fuego  !  fuego  !  fuego !"  Then  the  mayor 
may  yield,  but  if  he  is  obstinate  in  his  refusal,  the 


MADRID.  227 

handkerchiefs  disappear,  fists  and  canes  take  their 
places,  and  curses  burst  forth :  "  Don't  make  a  fool 
of  yourself !  don't  spoil  the  fun !  The  banderillas 
for  the  mayor!  fire  for  the  mayor!" 

The  agony  of  the  bull  is  terrible.  Sometimes  the 
torero  does  not  strike  where  he  should,  and  the 
sword  is  buried  to  the  hilt,  but  not  in  the  direction 
of  the  heart.  Then  the  bull  commences  to  run 
about  the  arena  with  the  sword  sticking  in  his  body, 
sprinkling  the  ground  with  blood,  bellowing  deeply, 
writhing  and  twisting  in  a  thousand  ways  to  free 
himself  from  that  torture ;  and  in  his  impetuous 
course  sometimes, the  sword  flies  out,  sometimes  it  is 
driven  deeper  in  and  causes  death. 

The  espada  is  frequently  obliged  to  give  the  bull 
a  second  thrust,  and  not  rarely  a  third  or  a  fourth ; 
the  blood  flows  in  torrents ;  all  the  capos  of  the 
capeadores  are  sprinkled ;  the  espada  is  besmeared 
and  the  barrier  bespattered ;  everything  is  covered 
with  blood ;  the  indignant  spectators  load  the  torero 
with  abuse.  Sometimes  the  bull  falls  to  the  ground 
badly  wounded,  but  does  not  die,  and  lies  there 
motionless  with  his  head  high  and  threatening,  as  if 
he  would  say,  "  Come  on,  assassins,  if  you  have  the 
courage !''  Then  the  struggle  is  ended,  the  agony 
must  be  shortened :  a  mysterious  man  climbs  the 
barrier,  approaches  with  stealthy  steps,  places  him- 
self behind  the  bull,  and,  watching  his  chance,  gives 
him  a  blow  on  the  head  with  a  dagger  which  pene- 


228  MADRID. 

trates  to  the  brain  and  kills  him.  Often  this  blow 
does  not  succeed,  either ;  the  mysterious  man  must 
strike  twice,  thrice,  or  even  four  times ;  then  the 
indignation  of  the  people  bursts  forth*  like  a  tempest. 
They  call  him  an  executioner,  a  coward,  an  infamous 
wretch,  wish  he  were  dead,  and  if  they  had  him  in 
their  hands  would  strangle  him  like  a  dog.  Some- 
times the  bull,  mortally  wounded,  staggers  a  little 
way  before  he  falls,  and,  reeling  with  slow  step  from 
the  place  where  he  was  stricken,  goes  to  die  in  peace 
in  a  quiet  corner ;  all  the  toreros  follow  him  slowly 
at  a  short  distance,  like  a  funeral  train ;  the  crowd 
watches  all  his  movements,  counts  his  steps,  measures 
the  progress  of  his  agony ;  profound  silence  attends 
his  last  moments ;  his  death  has  in  it  something 
majestic  and  solemn.  There  are  some  indomitable 
bulls  that  will  not  bow  the  head  even  in  drawing  the 
last  breath — bulls  that,  while  the  blood  runs  in 
streams  from  their  mouths,  still  threaten ;  bulls 
pierced  by  ten  sword-thrusts,  stabbed,  and  bleeding 
to  death,  that  still  raise  their  heads  with  a  superb 
motion  which  makes  the  crowd  of  their  persecutors 
recede  halfway  across  the  arena ;  bulls  whose  death- 
agony  is  more  terrible  than  their  first  fury ;  bulls 
that  tear  dead  horses,  break  through  the  barrier, 
furiously  trample  the  capas  scattered  through  the 
arena,  jump  into  the  course,  and  run  around  with  a 
high  head,  looking  at  the  spectators  with  an  air  of 
defiance,  fall,  rise  again,  and  die  bellowing. 


MADRID.  229 

The  agony  of  the  horses,  thougli  not  so  prolonged, 
is  more  dreadful.  Some  have  a  leg  broken  by  the 
bull,  others  the  neck  pierced  through  and  through ; 
others  are  killed  at  one  blow  with  a  thrust  of  the 
horn  in  the  breast,  without  shedding  a  drop  of  blood  ; 
others,  overcome  with  fear,  take  to  flight,  and,  run- 
ning straight  ahead,  come  in  violent  collision  with 
the  barrier  and  fall  down  dead ;  others  welter  a  long 
time  in  a  pool  of  blood  before  they  die ;  others, 
wounded,  bleeding,  disembowelled,  and  mutilated, 
still  gallop  about  with  desperate  fury,  run  against 
the  bull,  are  felled  to  the  ground,  rise  and  fight 
again  until  they  are  carried  away,  ruined  but  alive, 
and  then  the  intestines  are  replaced,  the  belly  sewed 
up,  and  they  serve  again ;  others,  terrified  at  the 
approach  of  the  beast,  tremble  violently,  paw  the 
ground,  recoil,  neigh,  and  do  not  wish  to  die ;  and 
these  most  excite  one's  pity.  Sometimes  a  single 
bull  kills  five  horses ;  sometimes  in  a  corrida  twenty 
are  killed ;  all  the  picadores  are  drenched  with 
blood ;  smoking  entrails  are  scattered  through  the 
arena,  and  the  bulls  grow  tired  of  slaughter. 

The  toreros  also  have  their  ugly  moments.  The 
picadores  now  and  then,  instead  of  falling  under  the 
horse,  fall  between  the  horse  and  the  bull ;  then  the 
bull  plunges  forward  to  kill  them ;  the  crowd  gives  a 
cry,  but  a  brave  capeador  throws  his  capa  over  the 
bull's  eyes  and  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life  saves  that 
of  his  comrade.  Often,  instead  of  rushing  at  the 


230  MADRID. 

miileta,  the  bull  turns  and  rushes  toward  the  cspada, 
grazes  him,  attacks  and  follows  him,  and  obliges  him 
to  throw  away  his  weapon  and  save  himself,  pale  and 
trembling,  on  the  other  side  of  the  barrier.  Some- 
times he  strikes  him  with  his  head  and  throws  him 
down  ;  the  espada  disappears  in  a  cloud  of  dust ;  the 
crowd  cries,  "  He  is  dead !"  but  the  bull  passes,  the 
espada  is  saved.  Sometimes  the  bull  rushes  unex- 
pectedly, raises  him  with  his  head,  and  tosses  him  to 
one  side.  Not  infrequently  the  bull  does  not  allow 
him  to  take  aim  with  the  sword ;  the  matador  does 
not  succeed  in  striking  in  the  breast,  and,  as  he  is 
compelled  by  the  laws  to  strike  in  a  given  place,  and 
in  that  place  only,  he  makes  futile  attempts  for  a 
long  time,  grows  confused,  and  runs  a  thousand 
chances  of  losing  his  life ;  meanwhile,  the  crowd 
howls,  hisses,  and  insults  him,  until  finally  the  poor 
man  in  desperation  resolves  to  kill  or  to  be  killed, 
and  strikes  at  random  ;  and  he  either  succeeds  and  is 
lauded  to  the  skies,  or  fails  and  is  despised,  derided, 
and  pelted  with  orange-peels,  even  though  he  may 
be  the  most  intrepid,  bravest,  and  renowned  torero 
in  Spain. 

In  the  crowd,  too,  a  thousand  incidents  occur 
during  the  spectacle.  Suddenly  two  spectators  fall 
to  fighting.  The  people  are  so  closely  packed  that 
some  one  of  the  neighbors  receives  a  blow  from  a 
cane ;  then  they  seize  their  canes  and  join  the  fray. 


MADRID.  231 

The  circle  of  the  combatants  grows  wider ;  the  row 
extends  through  entire  compartments  in  the  gallery ; 
in  a  few  moments  there  are  hats  flying  through  the 
air,  torn  cravats,  bloody  faces,  a  din  which  rises  to 
heaven  ;  all  the  spectators  are  on  their  feet ;  the  guards 
run  about ;  the  toreros  cease  to  be  actors  and  become 
spectators.  At  other  times  a  group  of  lively  young 
fellows  turn  in  one  direction  and  shout  all  together, 
"  There  he  is  !"  "  Who  ?"  No  one,  but  meanwhile 
the  persons  next  to  them  get  up,  and  those  at  a  dis- 
tance stand  on  the  seats ;  the  ladies  lean  from  the 
boxes,  and  in  a  moment  the  whole  circus  is  topsy- 
turvy. Then  the  group  of  young  men  give  a  loud 
laugh ;  their  neighbors,  so  as  not  to  appear  ridicu- 
lous, do  the  same ;  the  laugh  spreads  to  the  boxes 
and  through  the  galleries  till  ten  thousand  people  are 
laughing.  At  other  times  it  is  a  foreigner,  seeing 
his  first  bull-fight,  who  faints ;  the  news  spreads  in  a 
trice  ;  they  all  get  up,  stare,  shout,  and  make  a  pan- 
demonium that  baffles  description.  Again,  it  is  a 
good-humored  man  who  hails  his  friend  away  on  the 
other  side  of  the  theatre  in  a  voice  which  sounds  like 
a  clap  of  thunder.  That  great  crowd  is  stirred  in  a 
few  moments  with  a  thousand  contrary  emotions, 
passes  with  incessant  change  from  terror  to  enthu- 
siasm, from  enthusiasm  to  pity,  from  pity  to  anger, 
from  anger  to  delight,  admiration,  and  unbridled 
enjoyment. 

The  final  impression  which  this  spectacle  makes 


232  MADRID. 

upon  the  mind  is  indescribable  :  it  is  a  mingling  of 
sensations,  among  which  it  is  impossible  to  recollect 
anything  clearly  or  to  know  one's  thoughts.  At  one 
moment  you  turn  in  horror  to  flee  from  the  circus,  and 
swear  you  will  never  come  back ;  a  moment  later, 
astonished,  enraptured,  and  almost  intoxicated,  you 
hope  the  spectacle  will  never  end ;  now  you  are  almost 
sickened ;  now  you,  too,  like  your  neighbors,  shout, 
laugh,  and  applaud ;  the  blood  makes  you  shudder, 
but  the  marvellous  courage  of  the  men  exalts  you ; 
the  danger  clutches  at  your  heart,  but  you  are  reas- 
sured by  the  victory ;  little  by  little  the  fever  which 
works  in  the  crowd  steals  into  your  veins ;  you  do 
not  know  yourself,  you  are  another  person ;  you  too 
are  stirred  by  anger,  ferocity,  and  enthusiasm ;  you 
feel  bold  and  valiant ;  the  struggle  fires  your  blood  ; 
the  gleaming  of  the  sword  enrages  you;  and  then 
the  thousands  of  faces,  the  clamor,  the  music,  the 
bellowing,  the  blood,  the  profound  silences  and  tu- 
multuous bursts  of  applause,  the  vastness,  the  light, 
the  colors,  the  indescribable  grandeur,  courage, 
cruelty,  and  magnificence,  dazzle,  amaze,  and  be- 
wilder you. 

It  is  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  people  go  out ;  there 
are  ten  torrents  which  pour  from  ten  gates  and  flood 
in  a  few  moments  the  suburb  of  Salamanca,  the 
Prado,  the  avenues  of  the  Recoletos,  and  the  street 
Alcala;  a  thousand  carriages  wait  at  the  exits  of 


MADRID.  233 

the  circus ;  for  an  hour,  wherever  one  turns,  one 
sees  only  a  swarm  of  human  ants  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach ;  and  all  is  silent :  their  passions  have 
exhausted  them  all ;  one  hears  only  the  roar  of  pass- 

«/  J. 

ing  feet ;  it  seems  as  if  the  crowd  wishes  to  steal 
away  secretly ;  a  sort  of  sadness  succeeds  their 
clamorous  joy.  I,  for  my  part,  as  I  came  from  the 
circus  for  the  first  time,  had  scarcely  strength  to  stand 
on  my  feet ;  my  head  was  spinning  like  a  top  ;  my  ears 
buzzed,  and  everywhere  I  saw  the  horns  of  bulls,  eyes 
swimming  in  blood,  dead  horses,  and  flashing  swords. 
I  took  the  shortest  way  home,  and  as  soon  as  I 
arrived  there  tumbled  into  bed  and  fell  into  a  heavy 
sleep. 

On  the  following  morning  the  landlady  came  in 
great  haste  to  ask  me,  "  Well,  how  did  it  strike 
you  ?  Did  it  amuse  you  ?  Are  you  going  again  ? 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  replied ;  "  it  seems  like 
a  dream.  I  will  tell  you  later;  I  must  think  it 
over." 

Saturday  came,  the  day  before  the  second  bull- 
fight. "Are  you  going?"  asked  the  landlady. 
"  No,"  I  replied,  thinking  of  something  else.  I 
went  out,  turned  into  the  street  Alcala,  and  found 
myself  accidentally  in  front  of  the  shop  where 
tickets  are  sold ;  there  was  a  crowd  of  people. 
"Shall  I  go?"  I  asked  myself.  "Yes  or  no?" 

"  Do  you  want  a  ticket?"  a  boy  demanded:  "a 


234  MADRID. 

shady  seat,  No.  6,  near  the  barrier — fifteen  reales  f 
"  Done !"  I  replied. 

But  to  clearly  comprehend  the  nature  of  this 
spectacle  it  is  necessary  to  know  its  history.  No 
one  knows  certainly  when  the  first  bull-fight  took 
place :  the  tradition  tells  that  the  Cid  Campeador 
was  the  first  cavalier  to  descend  with  his  spear  into 
the  arena  and  on  horseback  kill  the  terrible  animal. 
Later,  the  young  nobles  devoted  themselves  with 
great  ardor  to  this  sport ;  bull-fights  were  held  at 
all  the  solemn  feasts,  and  only  to  the  nobility  was 
granted  the  honor  of  taking  part  in  them ;  even  the 
kings  entered  the  arena.  All  through  the  Middle 
Ages  this  was  the  favorite  spectacle  of  the  court — 
the  chosen  exercise  of  warriors,  not  only  among  the 
Spaniards,  but  among  the  Moors  as  well ;  and  they 
both  waged  war  in  the  circus  as  well  as  on  the 
battlefield.  Isabella  the  Catholic  wished  to  prohibit 
the  bull-fights,  because  she  had  been  horrified  on 
once  seeing  them,  but  the  numerous  and  powerful 
patrons  of  the  spectacle  dissua'ded  her  from  putting 
her  purpose  into  effect.  After  Isabella  the  circus 
received  great  encouragement.  Charles  V.  with  his 
own  hand  killed  a  bull  in  the  great  square  of  Valla- 
dolid;  Ferdinand  Pizarro,  the  celebrated  conqueror 
of  Peru,  was  a  valiant  torero  ,•  King  Sebastian  of 
Portugal  won  many  laurels  in  the  arena ;  Philip  III. 
adorned  the  circus  of  Madrid ;  Philip  IV.  fought  in 


MADRID.  235 

it ;  Charles  II.  fostered  the  art ;  in  the  reign  of 
Philip  V.  a  number  of  circuses  were  built  by  order 
of  the  government,  but  the  honor  of  fighting 
belonged  exclusively  to  the  nobility ;  they  fought 
only  on  horseback,  splendidly  mounted,  and  yet  the 
only  blood  shed  was  that  of  the  bull. 

It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the  last  century 
that  the  art  became  popular,  and  toreros,  properly 
called  artists  of  the  profession,  who  fought  on  foot 
and  on  horseback,  came  into  existence.  The  famous 
Francisco  Romero  Deronda  perfected  the  art  of 
fighting  on  foot,  introduced  the  custom  of  killing 
the  bull  face  to  face  with  the  sword  and  mtdeta,  and 
established  the  practice.  Thereupon  the  spectacle 
became  national  and  the  people  welcomed  it  with 
enthusiasm.  Charles  III.  forbade  it,  but  his  pro- 
hibition only  served  to  increase  the  popular  en- 
thusiasm into  a  complete  epidemic,  as  a  Spanish 
chronicler  puts  it.  King  Ferdinand  VII.,  who  was 
passionately  fond  of  bulls,  instituted  a  school  of  bull- 
fighting at  Seville.  Isabella  II.  was  more  enthusias- 
tic than  Ferdinand  VII. ;  Amadeus  I.,  it  is  said,  was 
not  a  whit  behind  Isabella  II.  And  now  bull-fight- 
ing flourishes  more  than  ever  before  in  Spain ;  there 
are  more  than  a  hundred  great  proprietors  who  raise 
bulls  for  the  spectacles ;  Madrid,  Seville,  Barcelona, 
Cadiz,  Valencia,  Jerez,  and  Puerto  de  Santa  Maria 
have  circuses  of  the  first  order ;  there  are  no  less 
than  fifty  small  circuses,  with  a  capacity  of  from 


236  MADRID. 

three  to  nine  thousand  spectators ;  in  all  the  villages 
where  there  is  no  circus  they  hold  the  corridas  in  the 
square.  At  Madrid  they  are  held  every  Sunday, 
and  in  the  other  cities  whenever  it  is  possible,  and 
they  are  always  attended  by  a  vast  concourse  of 
people  from  the  neighboring  cities,  villages,  country- 
side, mountains,  islands,  and  even  from  foreign 
countries. 

It  is  true  that  all  the  Spaniards  are  not  mad  over 
this  spectacle ;  many  never  attend ;  not  a  few  dis- 
approve, condemn,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  it 
driven  out  of  Spain  ;  some  journalists  now  and  then 
raise  a  cry  of  protest ;  a  deputy  the  day  after  a 
torero  is  killed  talks  of  petitioning  the  government ; 
but  its  enemies  are  all  timid  and  feeble. 

On  the  other  hand,  apologies  are  written  in 
defence  of  the  bull-fights,  new  circuses  are  built,  old 
ones  are  renewed,  and  the  foreigners  who  cry  out 
against  Spanish  barbarity  are  laughed  to  scorn. 

The  corridas  held  in  the  summer  are  not  the  only 
ones,  nor  is  the  spectacle  always  equally  good.  In 
the  circus  there  is  an  exhibition  every  Sunday 
through  the  winter,  but  there  are  not  those  noble 
and  fiery  bulls  of  the  summer  season,  neither  are 
there  the  great  artists  whom  Spain  admires ;  there 
are  bulls  of  smaller  size  and  less  courage,  and  toreros 
not  yet  proficient  in  the  art ;  but  there  is  a  spectacle, 
at  all  events,  and,  although  the  king  does  not  attend 
or  the  flower  of  the  citizens  as  in  the  summer-time, 


MADRID.  237 

the  circus  is  always  well  filled.  Little  blood  is  shed, 
only  two  bulls  are  killed,  and  the  spectacle  concludes 
with  fireworks  |  it  is  an  amusement  fit  for  servants 
and  children,  as  the  passionate  lovers  of  the  art  say 
in  deprecation. 

But  there  is  one  episode  in  the  winter  spectacles 
which  is  especially  amusing.  When  the  toreros  have 
killed  the  toros  de  mtterte,  the  arena  is  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  dilettanti ;  from  every  part  the 
people  jump  down,  and  in  a  moment  there  are  a 
hundred  workmen,  scholars,  and  street  arabs,  some 
with  cloaks  in  their  hands,  others  with  shawls, 
others  with  any  sort  of  a  rag,  who  crowd  to  right 
and  left  of  the  toril  ready  to  receive  the  bull.  The 
door  opens ;  a  bull  with  swathed  horns  rushes  into 
the  arena,  and  there  follows  an  indescribable  tumult ; 
the  crowd  surrounds,  follows,  and  drags  the  bull  here 
and  there,  hitting  him  with  their  mantles  and  shawls, 
plaguing  and  tormenting  him  in  a  thousand  ways, 
until  the  poor  animal,  entirely  exhausted,  is  driven 
from  the  arena  and  another  takes  his  place.  It  is 
incredible  with  what  audacity  those  boys  dart  under 
him,  twist  his  tail,  and  jump  on  his  back ;  incredible 
too  is  the  agility  with  which  they  dodge  the  blows. 
Sometimes  the  bull  with  a  sudden  turn  strikes  some 
one,  knocks  him  down,  tosses  him  in  the  air,  or  lifts 
him  high  on  his  horns ;  again  he  upsets  at  one  blow 
a  half  dozen,  and  bull  and  men  disappear  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  while  the  spectator  fears  for  an  instant  that 


238  MADRID. 

some  one  has  been  killed.  Nothing  of  the  kind! 
The  intrepid  capeadores  jump  up  with  bruised  limbs 
and  dusty  faces,  shrug  their  shoulders,  and  face 
him  again.  But  this  is  by  no  means  the  best  episode 
of  the  winter  spectacles.  Sometimes  the  bulls  are 
confronted  by  toreros  instead  of  toreros:  these  are 
women  dressed  like  tightrope-walkers,  with  faces  be- 
fore which  not  the  angels,  but  even  Lucifer,  would 

"  Make  with  his  wings  a  cover  for  his  eyes." 

The  picadoras  ride  on  mules ;  the  espada — the  one 
I  saw  was  an  old  woman  of  sixty,  Martina  by  name, 
an  Asturian,  known  in  all  the  circuses  in  Spain, — 
the  espada  fights  on  foot  with  the  rapier,  and  the 
muleta  like  the  most  intrepid  matador  of  the 
stronger  sex.  The  entire  cuadrilla  is  accompanied 
by  a  train  of  chulos  with  great  wings  and  humps  on 
their  backs.  These  unfortunate  women  risk  their 
lives  for  forty  francs !  A  bull  on  the  day  when  I 
witnessed  the  spectacle  broke  the  arm  of  one  bande- 
rillera  and  tore  the  petticoat  of  another,  so  that  she 
was  left  in  the  middle  of  the  circus  with  scarcely 
enough  clothes  on  her  back  to  cover  her  nakedness. 
After  the  women,  the  wild  beasts.  At  various 
times  they  made  the  bull  fight  with  lions  and  with 
tigers ;  it  is  only  a  few  years  since  one  of  these  com- 
bats was  held  in  the  circus  of  Madrid.  It  was  that 
celebrated  event  which  the  count-duke  de  Olivares 
commanded  in  honor  of  the  birthday,  if  my  memory 


MADRID.  239 

does  not  fail  me,  of  Don  Baltasar  Carlos  of  Asturia, 
prince  of  the  Asturias.  The  bull  fought  with  a  lion, 
a  tiger,  and  a  leopard,  and  succeeded  in  conquering 
them  all.  Also  in  a  combat  a  few  years  ago  the  tiger 
and  the  lion  got  the  worst  of  it ;  they  both  jumped 
impetuously  upon  the  back  of  the  bull,  but  before 
they  were  able  to  fasten  their  teeth  in  his  neck  they 
fell  to  the  ground  in  a  pool  of  blood,  pierced  by  the 
terrible  homs.  Only  the  elephant — a  huge  elephant 
which  still  lives  in  the  gardens  of  Buen  Retire — car- 
ried the  day ;  the  bull  attacked  him,  and  he  simply 
placed  his  head  on  the  bull's  back  and  pressed,  and 
the  pressure  was  so  delicate  that  his  reckless  assail- 
ant was  crushed  as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

But  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine  what  skill,  what 
courage,  and  what  imperturbable  tranquillity  of 
mind  must  be  possessed  by  a  man  who  with  his 
sword  faces  an  animal  that  kills  lions,  attacks  ele- 
phants, and  tears  in  pieces,  crushes,  and  covers  with 
blood  everything  that  he  touches.  And  there  are 
men  who  face  them  every  day. 

The  toreros  are  by  no  means  artists,  as  one  would 
suppose,  to  be  placed  in  the  same  category  with 
mountebanks  and  those  for  whom  the  people  feel  no 
other  sentiment  than  that  of  admiration.  The  torero 
is  respected  even  outside  of  the  circus ;  he  enjoys 
the  protection  of  the  young  aristocrats,  has  his  box 
in  the  theatre,  frequents  the  best  cafe's  in  Madrid, 
and  is  saluted  in  the  street  with  a  low  bow  by  per- 


240  MADRID. 

sons  of  refinement.  Famous  cspada-s  like  Frascuelo, 
Lagartijo,  and  Cayetano  receive  the  nice  little  sum 
of  about  ten  thousand  francs  a  year;  they  own 
houses  and  villas,  live  in  sumptuous  apartments, 
dress  with  elegance,  spend  heaps  of  money  on  their 
costumes  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver,  travel 
like  nabobs,  and  smoke  Havana  cigars.  Their  dress 
out  of  the  circus  is  very  curious :  an  Orsini  hat  of 
black  velvet ;  a  jacket  fitting  closely  around  the 
waist,  unbuttoned  and  reaching  barely  to  the  trou- 
sers ;  a  waistcoat  opened  almost  to  the  waist,  which 
allows  a  white  shirt  of  very  fine  texture  to  be  seen ; 
no  cravat ;  a  sash  of  red  or  blue  silk  about  the  loins ; 
a  pair  of  breeches  fitting  the  limb  like  the  tights  of 
a  ballet-dancer ;  a  pair  of  low  shoes,  of  morocco 
leather,  ornamented  with  embroidery,  a  little  peri- 
wig falling  down  the  back ;  and  then  gold  studs, 
chains,  diamonds,  rings,  and  trinkets ;  in  short,  an 
entire  jewelry-shop  on  their  persons.  Many  keep 
their  saddle-horse  and  some  their  carriages,  and 
when  they  are  not  killing  bulls  they  are  always 
walking  in  the  Prado,  at  the  Puerto  del  Sol,  or  in 
the  gardens  of  Recoletos  with  their  wives  and  their 
sweethearts,  splendidly  dressed  and  proudly  affec- 
tionate. Their  names,  their  faces,  and  their  deeds 
are  even  better  known  to  the  people  than  the  deeds, 
faces,  and  names  of  their  commanders  and  states- 
man. Toreros  in  comedies,  toreros  in  song,  toreros 
in  pictures,  toreros  in  the  windows  of  the  print- 


Matadors,  Madrid. 


MADRID.  241 

shops,  statues  of  toreros,  fans  painted  with  toreros, 
handkerchiefs  with  figures  of  toreros, — these  one 
sees  again  and  again,  on  every  occasion  and  in  every 
place. 

The  business  of  the  torero  is  the  most  lucrative 
and  the  most  honorable  to  which  a  courageous  son 
of  the  people  may  aspire :  very  many,  in  fact, 
devote  themselves  to  it,  but  very  few  become  pro- 
ficient ;  most  of  them  remain  mediocre  capeadores, 
a  few  become  banderillcros  of  note,  still  fewer 
famous  picadores ;  only  the  few  chosen  ones  of 
nature  and  fortune  become  brave  cspadas :  it  is 
necessary  to  come  into  the  world  with  that  bump 
developed ;  one  is  born  an  espada  as  one  is  born  a 
poet.  Those  killed  by  the  bulls  are  very  few,  and 
one  may  count  them  on  one's  fingers  for  a  long 
period  of  time  ;  but  the  crippled,  the  maimed,  those 
who  are  rendered  unfit  for  the  combat,  are  innu- 
merable. One  sees  them  in  the  city  with  canes  and 
crutches,  some  without  an  arm,  others  without  a  leg. 
The  famous  Tato,  the  first  of  the  toreros  of  modern 
time,  lost  a  leg ;  in  the  few  months  which  I  spent 
in  Spain  a  landerillero  was  half  killed  at  Seville,  a 
picador  was  seriously  wounded  at  Madrid,  Lagartijo 
was  injured,  and  three  amateur  capeadores  were 
killed  at  a  village.  There  is  scarcely  a  torero  who 
has  not  bled  in  the  arena. 

Before   leaving   Madrid   I  wished  to  talk  to  the 

VOL.  I.— 16 


242  MADRID. 

celebrated  Frascuelo,  the  prince  of  cspadas,  the  idol 
of  the  people  of  Madrid,  the  glory  of  the  art.  A 
Genoese  captain  who  knew  him  took  it  upon  himself 
to  present  ine :  we  fixed  the  day  and  met  at  the 
Imperial  Cafe'  at  the  Puerto  del  Sol.  It  makes  me 
laugh  when  I  think  of  my  emotions  on  seeing  him 
in  the  distance  and  watching  him  come  toward  us. 
He  was  very  richly  dressed,  loaded  with  jewelry, 
and  resplendent  as  a  general  in  full  uniform ;  as  he 
crossed  the  cafe*  a  thousand  heads  were  turned  and  a 
thousand  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  my  companion,  and 
myself:  I  felt  myself  growing  pale.  "This  is 
Signor  Salvador  Sanchez,"  said  the  captain  (Fras- 
cuelo  is  a  surname).  And  then,  presenting  me  to 
Frascuelo,  "  This  is  Signor  So-and-So,  his  admirer." 
The  illustrious  matador  bowed,  I  bowed  more  pro- 
foundly ;  we  sat  down  and  commenced  to  talk. 
What  a  strange  man  !  To  hear  him  talk  one  would 
say  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  stick  a  fly  with  a 
pin.  He  was  a  young  man,  about  twenty-five  years 
old,  of  medium  stature,  quick,  dark,  and  handsome, 
with  a  firm  glance  and  the  smile  of  an  absent-minded 
man.  I  asked  him  a  thousand  questions  about  his 
art  and  his  life ;  he  answered  in  monosyllables ;  I 
was  obliged  to  draw  the  words  from  his  mouth,  one 
by  one,  by  a  storm  of  questions.  He  replied  to  my 
compliments  by  looking  modestly  at  the  tips  of  his 
shoes.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  been  wounded  ; 
he  touched  his  knee,  thigh,  shoulder,  and  breast, 


MADEID.  243 

and  said,  "  Here,  and  here,  and  here,  and  here  too," 
with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  He  obligingly  wrote 
out  the  address  of  his  house  for  me,  asked  me  to 
come  and  see  him,  gave  me  a  cigar,  and  went  away. 
Three  days  later,  at  the  bull-fight,  I  had  a  seat  near 
the  barrier,  and  as  he  paused  near  me  to  gather  up 
the  cigars  which  the  spectators  threw  him,  I  tossed 
him  one  of  those  Milan  cigars  which  are  covered 
with  straw ;  he  picked  it  up,  examined  it,  smiled, 
and  tried  to  discover  who  had  thrown  it :  I  made  a 
sign,  he  saw  me  and  exclaimed,  "  Ah  !  the  Italian  !" 
I  seem  to  see  him  yet;  he  was  dressed  in  gray 
embroidered  with  gold,  and  one  hand  was  stained 
with  blood. 

But,  in  conclusion,  a  final  judgment  on  the  bull- 
fights !  Are  they  or  are  they  not  a  barbarous  sport, 
unworthy  of  a  civilized  people!  Are  they  or  are 
they  not  a  spectacle  which  corrupts  the  heart  ?  Now 
for  a  frank  opinion !  A  frank  opinion  ?  I  do  not 
wish  to  answer  in  one  way  and  to  draw  upon  myself 
a  flood  of  invective,  nor  to  answer  otherwise  and 
put  my  foot  in  a  trap,  so  I  must  confess  that  I  went 
to  the  circus  every  Sunday.  I  have  told  about  it 
and  described  it :  the  reader  knows  as  much  as  I  do  ; 
let  him  judge  for  himself  and  allow  me  to  keep  my 
own  counsel. 

I  saw  at  Madrid  the  famous  funereal  ceremony 
which  is  celebrated  every  year  on  the  second  of  May 


244  MADRID. 

in  honor  of  the  Spaniards  who  died  in  battle  or  were 
killed  by  the  French  soldiery  eighty-seven  years  ago, 
on  that  terrible  day  which  filled  Europe  with  horror 
and  led  to  the  outbreak  of  the  War  of  Independ- 
ence. 

At  dawn  there  was  a  booming  of  cannon,  and  in 
all  the  parish  churches  of  Madrid  and  before  an  altar 
erected  near  the  monument  they  began  to  celebrate 
mass,  and  continued  to  do  so  until  nightfall.  The 
ceremony  consists  of  a  solemn  procession,  which 
usually  forms  in  the  vicinity  of  the  royal  palace, 
proceeds  to  the  church  of  Saint  Isadore,  where  until 
1840  were  interred  the  bones  of  the  dead,  to  listen 
to  a  sermon,  and  then  to  march  on  to  the  monument 
to  hear  mass. 

In  all  the  streets  where  the  procession  is  to  pass 
there  are  drawn  up  the  volunteer  battalions,  the  regi- 
ments of  infantry,  squadrons  of  cuirassiers,  the  civil 
foot-guard,  the  artillery,  and  cadets ;  everywhere 
bugles  and  drums  are  sounding  and  bands  are  play- 
ing ;  one  sees  in  the  distance,  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  a  continual  passing  of  the  hats  of  generals, 
the  tossing  plumes  of  adjutants,  banners,  and  swords; 
all  the  streets  are  full  of  the  carriages  of  members  of 
the  Senate  and  the  Cortes,  as  large  as  triumphal 
chariots,  gilded  even  to  the  wheels,  upholstered  in 
velvet  and  silk,  adorned  with  fringes  and  tassels, 
and  drawn  by  superbly  plumed  horses.  The  win- 
dows of  all  the  houses  are  ornamented  with  tap- 


MADRID.  245 

estry  and  flowers ;  the  whole  populace  of  Madrid  is 
astir. 

I  saw  the  procession  pass  through  the  street 
Alcala.  First  came  the  huntsmen  of  the  city  militia ; 
then  the  boys  from  all  the  schools,  refuges,  and  hos- 
pitals of  Madrid — thousands  of  them,  two  by  two ; 
then  the  wounded  veterans  of  the  army,  some  on 
crutches,  some  with  bandaged  heads,  some  supported 
by  their  companions,  some  so  feeble  that  they  had  to 
be  almost  carried — soldiers  and  generals  in  their  old 
uniforms,  with  their  breasts  covered  with  medals  and 
lace,  with  long  swords  and  plumed  hats ;  then  a 
crowd  of  the  officers  of  the  various  corps,  shining 
with  gold  and  silver  and  dressed  in  a  thousand  colors; 
then  the  high  officers  of  state,  the  provincial  depu- 
ties, the  members  of  Congress,  the  senators ;  then 
the  heralds  of  the  municipality  and  the  chambers, 
with  flowing  robes  of  velvet  and  maces  of  silver; 
then  all  the  municipal  clerks  and  all  the  judges  of 
Madrid,  dressed  in  black  with  medallions  at  their 
throats ;  finally,  the  king  in  a  general's  uniform,  on 
foot,  accompanied  by  the  mayor,  the  captain-general 
of  the  province,  the  generals,  ministers,  deputies,  offi- 
cers of  ordnance,  and  aides-de-camp,  all  with  bared 
heads.  The  procession  was  ended  by  a  hundred 
mounted  guards,  resplendent  as  the  warriors  of  the 
Middle  Ages ;  the  royal  guard  on  foot  with  great 
shakos,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Napoleonic  guard ; 
red  swallow-tail  coats,  white  breeches,  wide  shoulder- 


246  MADRID. 

belts  crossed  over  the  breast,  black  gaiters  to  the 
knee,  swords,  epaulets,  cordons,  buckles,  and  orna- 
ments ;  then  the  volunteers,  soldiers,  infantry,  artil- 
lery ;  and  the  people.  They  all  marched  with  slow 
step ;  all  the  bands  played,  the  bells  tolled ;  the 
people  were  silent,  and  altogether,  the  children  of  the 
poor,  the  priests,  magistrates,  wounded  veterans,  and 
the  grandees  of  Spain,  presented  an  appearance  of 
dignity  and  magnificence  which  inspired  at  the  time 
a  feeling  of  sympathy  and  reverence. 

The  procession  turned  into  the  Prado  and  pro- 
ceeded toward  the  monument.  The  avenues,  the 
lawns,  and  the  gardens  were  full  of  people.  Ladies 
were  standing  in  their  carriages,  on  chairs,  and  on 
the  stone  seats,  holding  their  children  in  their  arms ; 
there  were  people  in  the  trees  and  on  the  roofs ;  at 
every  step  there  were  banners,  funeral  inscriptions, 
lists  of  the  victims  of  the  second  of  May ;  poems 
pinned  to  the  trunks  of  trees,  newspapers  with  bor- 
ders of  black,  prints  representing  episodes  of  the 
massacre,  wreaths,  crucifixes,  little  tables  with  urns 
for  alms,  lighted  candles,  pictures,  statuettes,  and 
toys  for  children,  with  a  model  of  the  monument — 
everywhere  memorials  of  1808,  emblems  and  signs  of 
sorrow,  festivity,  and  war.  The  men  were  almost  all 
dressed  in  black ;  the  women  in  gay  holiday  attire, 
with  long  funeral  trains  and  veils  ;  there  were  groups 
of  peasants  from  all  the  surrounding  villages  dressed  in 
lively  colors,  and  through  all  the  crowd  one  heard  the 


MADRID.  247 

discordant     cries     of    water-carriers,     guards,    and 
officers. 

The  monument  of  the  second  of  May,  which  stands 
at  that  point  where  the  greater  number  of  Spaniards 
were  shot,  though  it  does  not  possess  an  artistic  value 
equal  to  its  fame,  is — to  use  a  much-abused  though 
significant  word — imposing.  It  is  simple  and  bold, 
and  to  many  appears  heavy  and  ungraceful ;  but  it 
arrests  one's  glance  and  one's  thought,  even  if  one 
does  not  know  what  it  is ;  for  on  first  seeing  it  one 
perceives  that  some  event  of  importance  must  have 
transpired  in  that  place.  Above  an  octagonal  base 
of  four  steps  rises  a  great  square  sarcophagus 
adorned  with  inscriptions  and  arms  and  a  bas-relief 
representing  the  two  Spanish  officers  who  were  killed 
on  the  second  of  May  in  the  defence  of  the  Artillery 
Park.  On  the  sarcophagus  rises  a  pedestal  in  the 
Doric  style,  on  which  stand  four  statues,  symbolic 
of  Patriotism,  Bravery,  Constancy,  and  Virtue.  In 
the  midst  of  the  statues  rises  a  high  obelisk  which 
bears  in  characters  of  gold  the  words,  Dos  de  Mayo. 
Around  the  monument  there  extends  a  circular  gar- 
den intersected  by  eight  avenues  which  converge 
toward  a  common  centre ;  all  of  the  avenues  are 
shaded  by  rows  of  cypresses,  and  the  garden  is  en- 
closed by  an  iron  railing,  which  in  its  turn  is  encir- 
cled by  marble  steps.  This  grove  of  cypresses,  this 
solitary  enclosed  garden  in  the  midst  of  the  gayest 
promenade  of  Madrid,  is  like  a  vision  of  death  ming- 


248  MADRID. 

ling  with  the  joys  of  life ;  one  cannot  pass  without 
turning  to  look  at  it,  and  one  cannot  look  at  it  with- 
out thinking  :  at  night,  as  it  lies  in  the  moonlight,  it 
seems  like  a  fantastic  apparition  and  breathes  an  air 
of  solemn  mystery. 

The  king  arrived,  mass  was  celebrated,  all  the 
regiments  marched  past,  and  the  ceremony  was 
ended.  So  to  the  present  time  they  celebrate  the 
anniversary  of  the  second  of  May,  1808,  with  a  dig- 
nity, an  affection,  and  a  veneration  which  do  honor 
not  alone  to  the  Spanish  people,  but  to  the  human 
heart.  It  is  the  true  national  festival  of  Spain,  the 
only  day  in  the  year  when  party  strife  sleeps  and 
all  hearts  are  united  in  a  common  sentiment.  And 
in  this  sentiment,  as  one  can  readily  believe,  there  is 
no  bitterness  against  France.  Spain  has  thrown  all 
the  blame  of  the  war  and  the  massacres  which  it  oc- 
casioned upon  Napoleon  and  Murat ;  the  French  are 
welcomed  amicably,  like  all  other  foreigners  ;  the 
ill-fated  days  of  May  are  mentioned  only  to  celebrate 
the  honor  of  the  dead  and  of  their  country ;  every- 
thing in  this  ceremony  is  noble  and  grand,  and 
before  that  sacred  monument  Spain  has  only  words 
of  pardon  and  peace. 


Another  thing  to  be  seen  at  Madrid  is  the  cock- 
fighting. 

I  read  one  day  in  the  Correspondencia  the  follow- 


MADRID.  249 

ing  notice  :  "  En  la  funcion  que  se  celebrara  manana 
en  el  circo  de  Gallos  de  Recoletos,  hubra,  entre  otras 
dos  peleas,  en  las  que  figuraran  gallos  de  los  cono- 
cidos  aficionados  Francisco  Calderon  y  Don  Jose 
Diez,  por  lo  que  se  espera  sera  muy  animada  la 
diversion." 

The  spectacle  commenced  at  noon  :  I  was  there.  I 
was  impressed  by  the  originality  and  grace  of  the 
theatre.  It  looks  like  a  mosque  standing  on  a  little 
hill  in  a  garden,  but  yet  is  large  enough  to  hold  at 
least  a  thousand  persons.  In  form  it  is  a  perfect 
cylinder.  In  the  middle  rises  a  sort  of  a  circular 
stage  about  three  hands  high,  covered  with  green 
carpet  and  surrounded  by  a  railing  about  as  high  as 
the  platform  ;  this  is  the  battle-ground  of  the  cocks. 
Between  the  iron  uprights  of  the  railing  is  stretched 
a  very  fine  wire  netting  which  keeps  the  combatants 
from  making  their  escape.  Around  this  cage,  which 
is  about  as  large  as  a  dining-table,  runs  a  circle  of 
arm-chairs,  and  behind  them  a  second  higher  circle, 
and  both  of  them  are  upholstered  in  red  cloth.  Sev- 
eral of  the  chairs  on  the  first  row  bear  inscriptions 
written  in  big  letters,  Presidente,  Secretario,  and  other 
titles  of  the  persons  who  compose  the  tribunal  of  the 
spectacle.  Beyond  the  arm-chairs  rise  tiers  of 
benches  running  back  to  the  walls,  and  above  them 
extends  a  gallery  supported  by  ten  slender  columns. 
The  light  comes  from  above.  The  lively  red  of  the 
arm-chairs,  the  flowers  painted  on  the  walls,  the 


250  MADRID. 

columns,  the  light,  and,  in  a  word,  the  atmosphere 
of  the  theatre,  have  about  them  something  novel  and 
picturesque  which  pleases  and  exhilarates.  At  first 
sight  it  seems  like  a  place  where  one  ought  to  listen 
to  joyous  and  refined  music  rather  than  witness  a 
fight  between  animals. 

When  I  entered  there  were  already  a  hundred 
persons  present.  "  What  sort  of  people  are  these  ?" 
I  asked  myself,  and  truly  the  frequenters  of  the 
cock-fights  do  not  resemble  those  of  any  other  the- 
atre :  it  is  a  mixture  sui  generis,  such  as  one  sees 
only  in  Madrid.  There  are  no  women,  no  boys,  no 
soldiers,  and  no  working-men,  for  it  is  a  work-day 
and  at  an  inconvenient  hour.  But,  nevertheless,  one 
sees  here  a  greater  variety  of  feature,  dress,  and 
attitude  than  at  any  other  popular  gathering.  The 
spectators  are  all  persons  who  have  nothing  to  do  the 
livelong  day — comedians  with  long  hair  and  others 
with  bald  heads ;  toreros — Calderon,  the  famous 
picador,  was  there — with  red  sashes  around  their 
waists ;  students  bearing  on  their  faces  the  trace  of 
nights  spent  at  the  gaming-table ;  dealers  in  cocks ; 
young  dandies  ;  old  amateur  fanciers  dressed  in  black 
with  black  gloves  and  cravats.  These  sit  around 
the  cage.  Behind  them  are  the  rari  nantes,  some 
Englishmen,  some  blockheads,  of  the  class  one  sees 
everywhere ;  the  servants  of  the  circus,  a  cour- 
tesan, and  a  policeman.  With  the  exception  of 
the  foreigners  and  the  guard,  the  others — gentlemen, 


MADRID.  251 

toreros,  dealers,  and  actors — all  know  each  other, 
and  talk  among  themselves,  in  one  voice,  of  the 
quality  of  the  cocks  announced  in  the  programme, 
of  the  exhibition,  the  bets  made  the  previous  day, 
the  chances  of  the  struggle,  the  talons,  feathers, 
spurs,  wings,  beaks,  and  wounds,  displaying  the 
very  rich  terminology  of  the  sport  and  citing  rules, 
examples,  the  cocks  of  former  days,  lights,  and 
famous  winnings  and  losses. 

The  spectacle  began  at  the  appointed  hour.  A 
man  presented  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  circus 
with  a  paper  in  his  hand  and  commenced  to  read ; 
they  all  became  silent.  He  read  a  series  of  figures 
which  indicated  the  weight  of  the  different  pairs  of 
cocks  that  were  to  fight,  because,  pair  by  pair,  the 
one  cock  must  not  weigh  more  than  the  other,  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  laid  down  for  cock-fight- 
ing. The  conversation  began  again,  and  then  was 
suddenly  hushed.  Another  man  came  in  with  two 
small  cages  under  his  arm,  opened  a  gate  in  the 
railing,  stepped  up  on  the  platform,  and  fastened  the 
cages  to  the  arms  of  a  pair  of  balances  suspended 
from  the  ceiling.  Two  witneoses  assured  themselves 
that  the  weights  on  the  two  ends  were  almost  equal ; 
everybody  sat  down  ;  the  president  took  his  position  ; 
the  secretary  cried  Silencio !  the  weigher  and 
another  attendant  each  took  one  of  the  cages,  and, 
going  to  opposite  doors  in  the  railing,  opened  them 
simultaneously.  The  cocks  stepped  out,  the  gates 


252  MADRID. 

were  closed,  and  for  some  moments  the  spectators 
observed  a  profound  silence. 

They  were  two  Andalusian  cocks  of  English  breed, 
to  repeat  a  curious  definition  given  me  by  one  of  the 
spectators.  They  were  tall,  thin,  and  straight  as 
arrows,  with  long  necks,  very  flexible  and  totally 
bare  of  feathers  along  the  back  and  from  the  breast 
up ;  they  were  without  crests,  and  had  small  heads 
and  eyes  which  betokened  their  warlike  nature. 
The  spectators  looked  at  them  closely  without  say- 
ing a  word.  The  fanciers  in  a  few  moments  judge 
by  the  color,  the  form,  and  the  movements  of  the  two 
animals  which  will  probably  be  the  victor ;  then  they 
offer  their  bets.  It  is  a  very  uncertain  judgment, 
as  any  one  may  understand,  but  it  is  the  uncertainty 
which  gives  zest  to  the  sport.  Suddenly  the  silence 
is  broken  by  an  outburst  of  cries :  "  A  crown  on  the 
right  one  !" — "  A  crown  on  the  left !" — "  Done  !" — 
"  Three  crowns  on  the  black  !" — "  Four  crowns  on 
the  gray  !" — "  Eighty  francs  on  the  small  one  !" — 
"  Done  I" — "  I  take  the  bet  on  the  gray  !" 

They  all  shout  and  wave  their  hands,  and  signal 
to  each  other  with  their  canes ;  the  bets  cross  in 
every  direction,  and  in  a  few  moments  there  are  a 
thousand  francs  at  stake. 

The  two  cocks  do  not  look  at  each  other  at  first. 
One  turns  in  one  direction,  the  other  looks  the 
opposite  way ;  they  crow,  and  crane  their  necks 
toward  the  spectators,  as  if  they  are  asking,  "  What 


MADRID.  253 

do  you  want  f"  Little  by  little,  without  making  any 
sign  of  having  seen  each  other,  they  approach ;  it 
seems  as  though  one  is  trying  to  take  the  other  by 
surprise  ;  suddenly,  as  quick  as  a  flash,  they  spring 
at  each  other  with  open  wings,  strike  in  the  air,  and 
separate  in  a  cloud  of  feathers.  After  the  first 
encounter  they  stop  and  plant  themselves  one  before 
the  other,  with  their  heads  and  beaks  almost  touch- 
ing, motionless,  and  looking  fixedly,  as  though  they 
wish  to  poison  each  other  with  their  eyes.  Then 
they  dash  together  again  with  great  violence,  and 
after  that  the  attacks  follow  without  interruption. 

They  strike  with  their  talons,  spurs,  and  beaks ; 
clasp  each  other  with  their  wings,  so  that  they  look 
like  one  cock  with  two  heads ;  they  dodge  under 
each  other,  strike  against  the  wires  of  the  cage, 
chase  each  other,  fall,  slip,  and  fly.  Soon  the  blows 
fall  faster ;  feathers  fly  from  their  heads ;  their  necks 
turn  as  red  as  fire  and  they  begin  to  bleed.  Then 
they  fall  to  pecking  each  other  on  the  head,  around 
and  in  the  eyes ;  they  tear  the  flesh  with  the  fury 
of  two  maniacs  afraid  of  being  separated  ;  they  seem 
to  know  that  one  of  them  must  die ;  they  utter  not 
a  sound  or  a  groan ;  one  hears  only  the  beating  of 
their  wings,  the  sound  of  breaking  feathers  and  of 
beaks  striking  the  bones ;  there  is  not  a  moment's 
respite ;  it  is  a  fury  which  leads  only  to  death. 

The  spectators  watch  all  their  motions  intently, 
count  the  fallen  feathers,  and  number  the  wounds, 


254  MADRID. 

and  the  shouting  becomes  all  the  time  more  excited 
and  the  wagers  heavier :  "  Five  crowns  on  the 
little  one  !" — "  Eight  crowns  on  the  gray  !" — 
"  Twenty  crowns  on  the  black  !" — "  Done  " — 
"  Done !" 

At  a  certain  point  one  of  the  cocks  makes  a  mo- 
tion that  betrays  his  inferior  strength  and  begins  to 
show  signs  of  weakening.  While  he  still  resists  his 
pecks  become  slower,  the  strokes  of  his  spurs  feebler, 
and  his  springs  lower.  He  seems  to  know  that  he 
must  die.  He  fights  no  longer  to  kill,  but  to  keep 
from  being  killed,  retreats,  flees,  falls,  raises  himself, 
returns  to  fall  again,  reels  as  though  seized  with  ver- 
tigo. Then  the  spectacle  begins  to  grow  horrible. 
Before  the  failing  enemy  the  victor  grows  fiercer ; 
his  pecks  fall  fast  and  furious,  striking  the  eyes  of 
his  victim  with  the  regularity  of  the  needle  of  a  sew- 
ing-machine 5  his  neck  flies  back  and  forth  with  the 
strength  of  a  spring;  his  beak  seizes  the  flesh, 
twists  and  tears  it,  then  darts  into  the  wound  as  if 
seeking  for  the  most  secret  fibre  ;  then  he  pecks  the 
head  again  and  again  as  though  he  wishes  to  crack 
the  skull  and  tear  out  the  brain.  There  are  no 
words  to  express  the  horror  of  that  pecking,  con- 
tinuous, insatiable,  inexorable.  The  victim  defends 
himself,  flees,  and  runs  around  the  cage,  and  after 
him,  beside  him,  hovering  over  him  like  a  shadow, 
with  his  head  stretched  over  that  of  the  fugitive, 
follows  the  victor  like  a  confessor,  always  pecking, 


MADRID.  255 

piercing,  and  tearing.  He  has  about  him  the  air  of 
a  jailer  and  executioner  5  he  seems  to  be  whispering 
in  the  ear  of  his  victim  and  to  accompany  every 
blow  with  an  insult :  "  There  !  take  that !  suffer  ! 
die !  No !  live ;  take  this  blow  and  this,  and  still 
another !"  A  little  of  the  cock's  sanguinary  fury  is 
instilled  into  your  veins ;  that  coAvardly  cruelty  in- 
spires a  longing  for  revenge  ;  one  would  strangle  the 
creature  with  one's  hands  and  crush  its  head  with 
one's  feet.  The  conquered  cock,  all  bedraggled 
with  blood,  featherless,  and  tottering,  still  tries  now 
and  then  to  return  the  attack,  gives  a  few  pecks, 
turns  to  flee,  and  dashes  against  the  irons  of  the 
railing  to  find  a  way  of  escape. 

The  bettors  become  more  excited  and  shout  even 
louder  than  before.  They  can  no  longer  bet  on  the 
struggle,  and  so  begin  to  bet  on  the  agony :  "  Five 
crowns  that  it  does  not  make  three  attacks  !" — "  Ten 
crowns  that  it  does  not  make  five  !" — "  Four  crowns 
that  it  does  not  make  two  !" — "  Done  !" — "  Done  !" 

At  this  point  I  heard  a  remark  which  made  me 
shudder:  " Es  ciego !"  ("It  is  blind.") 

I  approached  the  netting,  looked  at  the  conquered 
cock,  and  averted  my  face  in  horror.  It  had  no 
skin,  it  had  no  eyes ;  its  neck  was  only  a  bloody 
bone,  its  head  a  skull ;  its  wings,  reduced  to  three  or 
four  feathers,  hung  down  like  two  rags ;  it  seemed 
impossible  that  wounded  as  it  was  it  could  still  live 
and  walk ;  it  no  longer  had  any  form. 


256  MADRID. 

Nevertheless,  that  remnant,  that  monster,  that 
skeleton  dripping  with  blood,  still  defended  itself 
and  fought  on  in  the  dark,  raising  its  broken  wings 
like  two  stumps,  stretching  out  its  fleshless  neck, 
shaking  its  skull  at  random,  here  and  there,  like  a 
new-born  puppy. 

It  was  so  disgusting  and  horrible  that  I  closed  my 
eyes  to  blur  the  sight.  And  the  executioner  con- 
tinued to  peck  at  the  wounds,  to  pierce  its  eyeballs 
and  beat  its  naked  skull ;  it  was  no  longer  a  fight  r 
it  was  torture  ;  it  seemed  as  though  the  cock  wished 
to  torment  without  killing ;  sometimes,  when  its  vic- 
tim remained  still  for  a  moment,  it  bent  over  and  ex- 
amined it  with  the  scrutiny  of  an  anatomist ;  some- 
times it  stepped  off  and  looked  down  at  it  with  the 
indifference  of  a  grave-digger ;  then,  again,  it  would 
leap  upon  it  with  the  greed  of  a  vampire,  peck,  suck, 
and  tear  it  as  vigorously  as  at  first.  Finally,  the 
dying  fowl  stopped  suddenly,  bent  its  head  to  the 
ground  as  though  overcome  by  sleep,  and  its  execu- 
tioner looked  at  it  attentively  and  desisted. 

Then  the  shouting  was  redoubled ;  it  was  no 
longer  possible  to  bet  on  the  convulsions  of  its 
agony,  so  they  bet  on  the  symptoms  of  death : 
"  Five  crowns  that  it  will  never  raise  its  head !" — 
"  Three  crowns  that  it  raises  it  twice  !" — "  Done  !'' 
— "Done!" 

The  dying  cock  slowly  raised  its  head ;  the  ready 
executioner  leaped  upon  it  with  a  storm  of  blows ; 


MADRID.  257 

the  shouting  burst  out  again ;  the  victim  made 
another  slight  movement,  received  another  pecking, 
shook  itself;  received  another  blow;  blood  rushed 
from  its  mouth ;  it  tottered  and  fell.  The  victor, 
coward  that  he  was,  began  to  crow.  An  attendant 
came  and  carried  them  both  away. 

All  the  spectators  jumped  to  their  feet  and  a  clam- 
orous conversation  followed ;  the  winners  laughed 
loud  and  long,  the  losers  swore,  and  one  and  all  dis- 
cussed the  merits  of  the  cocks  and  the  chances  of 
the  struggle  :  "A  good  fight !" — "  Good  cocks  !" — 
"  Poor  cocks  !" — "  They  were  no  good  !" — "  You 
don't  understand  it,  sir !"— "  Good !"— "  Bad !" 

"  Be  seated,  cdballcros  /"  cried  the  president ;  they 
all  sat  down,  and  another  fight  started. 

I  glanced  toward  the  battlefield  and  went  out. 
Some  may  not  believe  it,  but  that  spectacle  seemed 
to  me  more  horrible  than  my  first  bull-fight.  I  had 
no  idea  of  such  ferocious  cruelty ;  I  did  not  believe 
until  I  saw  it  that  one  animal,  after  rendering 
another  powerless,  would  be  able  to  abuse,  torment, 
and  torture  it  in  that  manner  with  the  fury  of  hate 
and  the  luxury  of  revenge ;  I  had  not  believed  that 
the  rage  of  a  beast  could  reach  the  point  of  present- 
ing the  character  of  the  most  extravagant  human 
vice.  Even  now — and  it  is  a  long  time  since — 
whenever  I  remember  that  spectacle  I  involuntarily 
turn  my  head  to  one  side  as  if  to  avoid  the  horrible 
sight  of  that  dying  cock,  and  I  never  chance  to  place 

VOL.  I.— 17 


258  MADRID. 

my  hand  on  a  railing  without  casting  down  my  eyes 
with  the  expectation  of  seeing  the  ground  sprinkled 
with  feathers  and  blood.  If  you  go  to  Spain,  take 
my  advice,  gentlefolk,  and  be  content  with  the 
bulls. 


THE  CONVENT  OF  THE  ESCUKIAL. 

Before  leaving  for  Andalusia,  I  went  to  see  the  fa- 
mous convent  of  the  Escurial,  the  Leviathan  of  ar- 
chitecture, the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world,  the 
grandest  pile  of  granite  on  the  earth ;  and  if  you 
wish  other  high-sounding  names,  you  have  only  to 
create  them,  but  you  will  find  none  that  has  not  pre- 
viously been  applied  to  the  edifice.  I  left  Madrid 
early  in  the  morning. 

The  village. of  the  Escurial,  which  gives  the  con- 
vent its  name,  lies  about  eight  leagues  from  the  city, 
a  short  distance  from  the  Guadarrama ;  the  road 
crosses  a  desolate,  arid  plain  bounded  by  a  horizon 
of  snow-clad  mountains.  When  I  arrived  at  the 
station  of  the  Escurial  a  cold,  drizzling  rain  was 
falling,  which  chilled  me  through. 

From  the  station  to  the  village  there  is  a  climb  of 
half  a  mile.  I  entered  a  diligence,  and  after  a  few 
minutes'  ride  was  set  down  in  a  solitary  street 
bordered  on  the  left  by  the  convent,  and  on  the 
right  by  the  houses  of  the  village,  and  closed  in  the 
distance  by  the'  mountains.  At  the  first  sight  one 


The  Escurial. 


MADRID.  259 

can  make  out  nothing  clearly  :  ^ne  expected  to  see  a 
building,  and  sees  a  city  ;  one  does  not  know  whether 
one  is  already  in  the  convent  or  still  outside  of  it ; 
on  every  side  there  are  walls ;  one  goes  forward, 
and  finds  one's  self  in  a  square,  looks  around,  and 
sees  streets,  but  has  scarcely  entered  these  before 
the  convent  again  closes  around,  and  one  has  lost 
one's  bearings  and  does  not  know  which  way  to  turn. 
The  first  feeling  is  one  of  sadness.  The  entire 
building  is  of  dirt-colored  stone  pointed  with  white 
lines ;  the  roofs  are  covered  with  plates  of  lead.  It 
seems  like  a  building  of  earth.  The  walls  are  very 
high  and  bare,  and  there  are  a  great  number  of 
windows,  which  look  like  loopholes.  One  would  call 
it  a  prison  rather  than  a  convent.  Everywhere  one 
sees  that  sombre,  dead  color ;  there  is  not  a  living 
soul  stirring,  and  the  silence  of  an  abandoned  for- 
tress broods  over  it ;  beyond  the  black  roofs  rises 
the  black  mountain,  which  seems  to  hang  over  the 
edifice  and  give  it  an  air  of  mysterious  solitude. 
The  place,  the  lines,  the  colors,  everything,  seems  to 
have  been  chosen  by  the  founder  for  the  purpose 
of  offering  to  the  eyes  of  man  a  sad  and  solemn 
spectacle. 

Before  entering  you  have  lost  your  gaiety ;  you 
no  longer  smile ;  you  think.  You  are  arrested  at 
the  doors  of  the  Escurial  by  a  sort  of  trepidation,  as 
at  the  gates  of  a  desolate  city ;  it  seems  that  if  the 
terrors  of  the  Inquisition  still  linger  in  any  corner 


260  MADRID. 

of  the  earth,  they  must  be  found  within  these  walls  •, 
you  would  say  that  here  one  might  see  its  last  traces 
and  listen  to  its  last  echo. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  basilica  and  convent  of 
the  Escurial  were  founded  by  Philip  II.  after  the  battle 
of  San  Quintino,  in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  to  Saint  Law- 
rence made  during  the  siege  where  the  besieging  force 
was  obliged  to  storm  a  church  consecrated  to  that  saint. 
Don  Juan  Batista  of  Toledo  began  the  work,  and 
Herrera  finished  it ;  twenty  years  were  spent  in  its 
construction.  Philip  II.  wished  the  edifice  to  pre- 
sent the  form  of  a  gridiron,  in  commemoration  of 
the  martyrdom  of  Saint  Lawrence,  and  such  indeed 
is  its  form.  The  foundation  is  a  rectangular  par- 
allelogram. 

At  the  four  corners  rise  four  great  square  towers 
with  pointed  roofs,  which  represent  the  four  feet  of 
the  gridiron ;  the  church  and  the  royal  palace, 
which  rise  on  one  side,  are  symbolic  of  the  handle, 
the  interior  buildings,  which  connect  the  two  sides 
lengthwise,  answer  for  the  cross-bars.  Other 
smaller  buildings  rise  beyond  the  parallelogram  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  convent,  and  extend  along 
one  of  the  longer  sides  and  one  of  the  courts,  form- 
ing two  great  squares ;  on  the  other  two  sides  are 
gardens.  The  fagades,  the  doorways,  the  vestibules 
—everything  is  in  harmony  with  the  grandeur  and 
dignity  of  the  edifice,  and  U  is  useless  to  add  de- 
scription to  description.  The  royal  palace  is  most 


MADRID.  261 

splendid,  and  it  is  well  to  see  it  before  entering  the 
convent  and  the  church,  so  as  not  to  confuse  the 
different  impressions.  This  palace  occupies  the 
north-east  corner  of  the  structure.  Some  of  the 
rooms  are  full  of  paintings ;  others  hung  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  tapestries  designed  by  Goya,  repre- 
senting bull-fights,  popular  balls,  sports,  festivals, 
and  Spanish  costumes ;  others  royally  furnished  and 
adorned ;  the  pavement,  the  doors,  the  windows 
covered  with  marvellous  workmanship  in  mosaic  and 
superb  gilding. 

But  the  chamber  of  Philip  II.  is  the  important  one 
among  all  these  rooms — a  cell  rather  than  a  room, 
bare  and  squalid,  with  an  alcove  which  opens  into 
the  royal  oratory  of  the  church,  so  that  from  the 
bed,  when  the  doors  are  closed,  one  may  see  the 
priests  saying  mass.  Philip  II.  slept  in  that  cell, 
there  he  had  his  last  sickness,  and  there  he  died. 
One  may  still  see  some  chairs  which  he  used,  his 
writing-desk,  and  two  small  benches  on  which  he 
rested  his  gouty  leg.  The  walls  are  white,  the 
ceiling  is  flat  and  without  ornament,  and  the  floor 
is  of  brick. 

After  seeing  the  royal  palace  one  leaves  the  build- 
ing, crosses  the  square,  and  re-enters  by  the  princi- 
pal doorway.  A  guide  attaches  himself  to  your 
person ;  you  are  led  through  a  large  vestibule  and 
find  yourself  in  the  Courtyard  of  the  Kings. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  you  are  able  to  form  an 


262  MADRID. 

idea  of  the  vast  skeleton  of  the  edifice.  The  court- 
yard is  entirely  surrounded  by  walls ;  on  the  side 
opposite  the  doorway  rises  the  facade  of  the  church. 
From  the  spacious  platform  rise  six  enormous  Doric 
columns,  each  of  which  supports  a  great  pedestal 
and  every  pedestal  a  statue.  There  are  six  colossal 
statues  by  Battista  Monegro,  representing  Jehosa- 
phat,  Ezekiel,  David,  Solomon,  Joshua,  and  Manas- 
seh.  The  courtyard  is  paved  with  stone  sprinkled 
with  bits  of  mouldy  turf;  the  walls  look  like  rocks 
cut  in  vertical  lines  ;  everything  is  rigid,  massive, 
and  heavy,  and  offers  the  fantastic  appearance  of  a 
building  carved  by  Titans  out  of  the  solid  mountain, 
ready  to  defy  the  shocks  of  time  and  the  thunder- 
bolts of  heaven.  There  one  begins  to  understand 
what  the  Escurial  is. 

One  mounts  the  platform  and  enters  the  church. 

The  interior  of  the  church  is  bare  and  gloomy ; 
four  enormous  pilasters  of  gray  granite  bear  up  the 
vaulted  roof  painted  in  fresco  by  Luca  Giordano ; 
beside  the  great  altar,  carved  and  gilded  in  the 
Spanish  style,  and  between  the  columns  of  the  two 
royal  oratories,  one  sees  two  groups  of  bronze  statues, 
kneeling  figures  with  clasped  hands  stretched  toward 
the  altar — on  the  right,  Charles  V.,  the  empress  Isa- 
bella, and  several  princesses ;  on  the  left,  Philip  II. 
with  his  wives.  Over  the  doorway  of  the  church, 
thirty  feet  from  the  ground,  at  the  end  of  the  great 
nave,  rises  the  choir,  with  two  rows  of  seats,  in  the 


MADRID  263 

Corinthian  style  and  simple  in  design.  In  a  corner 
near  a  secret  door  is  the  seat  where  Philip  II.  used 
to  sit.  Through  that  door  he  received  letters  and 
important  despatches  without  being  seen  by  the 
priests  chanting  in  the  choir.  This  church,  which, 
compared  with  the  whole  edifice,  seems  very  small, 
is  nevertheless  one  of  the  largest  churches  in  Spain, 
and,  although  it  appears  so  devoid  of  ornament,  con- 
tains a  vast  wealth  of  marbles,  gold,  relics,  and 
paintings,  which  a  dim  light  in  part  conceals,  and 
from  which  the  attention  is  diverted  by  the  gloomi- 
ness of  the  building.  Besides  'the  thousand  works 
of  art  which  one  sees  in  the  chapels,  in  the  rooms 
which  open  out  of  the  church,  and  on  the  staircases 
which  lead  to  the  galleries,  there  is  in  a  corridor 
behind  the  choir  a  superb  white  marble  crucifix,  the 
work  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  which  bears  the  inscrip- 
tion, Benvenutus  Zalinus,  civ  is  Florentinus,  facebat 
1562.  In  other  parts  one  sees  paintings  by  Navar- 
rete  and  Herrera.  But  all  surprise  is  overwhelmed 
by  a  feeling  of  sadness.  The  color  of  the  stone,  the 
dim  light,  the  profound  silence  which  encircles  you 
incessantly  draw  your  thoughts  to  the  vastness,  the 
hidden  recesses,  and  the  solitude  of  the  edifice,  and 
leave  no  place  for  the  indulgence  of  your  admiration. 
The  appearance  of  that  church  inspires  an  inexpres- 
sible sense  of  restlessness.  You  would  know  by  in- 
tuition, if  you  had  not  learned  it  otherwise,  that 
around  those  walls  for  a  long  distance  extend  only 


264  -  MADRID. 

granite,  shadows,  and  silence  ;  you  feel  that  measure- 
less structure  without  seeing  it ;  you  feel  that  you 
are  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  forsaken  city ;  you 
would  hasten  your  steps  to  see  it  at  once,  to  free 
yourself  from  the  incubus  of  that  mystery,  and  to 
seek,  if  anywhere  they  might  be  found,  light,  noise, 
and  life. 

From  the  church,  through  several  bare,  cold 
rooms,  one  passes  into  the  sacristy,  a  large,  vaulted 
chamber,  along  one  of  whose  walls  runs  an  unbroken 
row  of  wardrobes  made  of  various  fine  woods.  It 
contains  also  a  series  of  paintings  by  Ribera, 
Giordano,  Zurbaran,  Tintoretto,  and  other  Spanish 
and  Italian  painters ;  and  at  the  end  stands  the  fa- 
mous altar  of  the  Santa  forma,  with  the  very  cele- 
brated painting  of  poor  Claude  Coello,  who  died  of 
a  broken  heart  when  Luca  Giordano  was  summoned 
to  the  Escurial.  The  effect  of  this  painting  is  truly 
above  all  expectation.  It  represents  with  life-size 
figures  the  procession  which  once  marched  to  place 
the  Santa  forma  in  that  very  spot ;  it  depicts  the 
sacristy  and  the  altar,  the  prior  kneeling  on  the 
steps,  with  the  casket  and  the  sacred  Host  in  his 
hands ;  around  him  are  grouped  the  deacons  on 
one  side,  Charles  II.  on  his  knees,  and  beyond  the 
monks,  priests,  collegians,  and  the  other  worship- 
pers. The  figures  are  so  life-like  and  natural,  the 
perspective  so  trite,  the  coloring,  shading,  and  light 
so  effective,  that  on  first  entering  the  sacristy  one 


MADRID.  265 

mistakes  the  painting  for  a  mirror  which  reflects  a 
religious  ceremony  being  celebrated  at  that  moment 
in  the  next  room.  Then  the  illusion  vanishes,  but 
one  is  still  deceived  as  to  the  background  of  the  pic- 
ture, and  it  is  actually  necessary  to  approach  close 
enough  to  touch  it  before  one  believes  that  it  is  only 
a  painted  canvas  and  not  another  sacristy.  On  the 
festival  days  the  canvas  is  rolled  up,  and  there  ap- 
pears in  the  centre  of  a  little  chapel  a  small  temple 
of  gilded  bronze,  within  which  one  sees  a  magnif- 
icent casket,  which  contains  the  sacred  Host,  adorned 
with  ten  thousand  rubies,  diamonds,  amethysts,  and 
garnets  arranged  in  the  form  of  dazzling  rays. 

From  the  sacristy  we  went  to  the  Pantheon.  A 
guide  led  the  way  with  a  lighted  torch :  we  de- 
scended a  long  granite  staircase  and  came  to  a  sub- 
terranean door,  where  not  a  single  ray  of  light  pene- 
trated. Over  this  door  one  reads  the  following 
inscription  in  gilded  letters  of  bronze : 
"  God  great  and  omnipotent ! 

"A  place  consecrated  by  the  piety  of  the  Aus- 
trian dynasty  to  the  mortal  remains  of  the  Catholic 
kings,  who  are  looking  for  that  day  of  their  desire, 
under  the  great  altar  sacred  to  the  Redeemer  of 
the  human  race.  Charles  V.,  the  most  illustrious  of 
the  Caesars,  desired  this  for  the  last  resting-place  of 
himself  and  his  lineage ;  Philip  II.,  the  most  prudent 
of  kings,  planned  it;  Philip  III.,  a  monarch  of  sin- 
cere piety,  made  a  beginning  of  the  work;  Philip 


266  MADRID. 

IV.,  great  in  his  clemency,  constancy,  and  devotion, 
enlarged,  adorned,  and  brought  it  to  completion  in 
the  year  of  our  Lord  1654." 

The  guide  entered :  I  followed  him  and  found 
myself  surrounded  by  sepulchres,  or  rather  in  a 
sepulchre,  as  dark  and  cold  as  a  grotto  in  a  moun- 
tain-side. It  is  a  little  octagonal  chamber  built  en- 
tirely of  marble,  with  a  small  altar  on  the  side  oppo- 
site the  door,  and  in  the  remaining  space  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  one  above  the  other,  tombs  adorned  with 
bronze  ornaments  and  bas-reliefs ;  the  ceiling  is 
under  the  great  altar  in  the  church.  To  the  right 
of  the  altar  are  the  tombs  of  Charles  V.,  Philip  II., 
Philip  III.,  Philip  IV.,  Louis  I.,  the  three  Don  Car- 
los, and  Ferdinand  VII. ;  on  the  left,  the  empresses 
and  queens.  The  guide  placed  his  torch  near  the 
tomb  of  Maria  Louisa  of  Savoy,  the  spouse  of 
Charles  III.,  and  said  to  me  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
"  Read."  The  marble  is  ruled  in  different  direc- 
tions ;  with  a  little  study  I  was  able  to  distinguish 
five  letters ;  they  form  the  name  Luisa,  written  by 
the  queen  herself  with  the  point  of  her  scissors. 

Suddenly  the  guide  extinguished  his  torch  and 
we  were  left  in  the  dark ;  the  blood  froze  in  my 
veins.  "  Light  it !"  I  cried.  The  guide  laughed  a 
long,  ghostly  laugh,  which  seemed  to  me  like  a  death- 
rattle,  and  replied,  "  Lool  !"  I  looked :  a  faint  ray  of 
light,  entering  through  a  chink  near  the  ceiling,  stole 
along  the  wall  almost  to  the  pavement,  shedding  light 


Tomb  of  Charles  V.,    The  EscuriaL 


MADRID.  267 

enough  merely  to  make  visible  some  tombs  of  the 
queens :  it  seemed  like  a  beam  of  moonlight,  and  the 
bas-reliefs  and  the  bronzes  on  the  tombs  gleamed  in 
that  uncanny  glimmer  as  though  they  were  dripping 
with  water.  At  that  moment  I  perceived,  for  the 
first  time,  the  odor  of  that  sepulchral  air,  and  a 
tremor  of  fear  seized  me :  in  imagination  I  entered 
those  tombs  and  saw  all  those  stiffened  corpses;  I 
sought  an  escape  through  the  vaulted  roof,  and  found 
myself  alone  in  the  church.  I  fled  from  the  church 
and  lost  myself  in  the  labyrinth  of  the  convent ; 
presently  I  came  to  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  tombs, 
and  felt  that  I  was  truly  in  the  heart  of  that  mon- 
strous edifice,  in  its  deepest  part.  I  seemed  to  be  a 
prisoner  entombed  in  that  mountain  of  granite,  which 
was  everywhere  closing  in  upon  me  and  pressing  me 
on  all  sides,  and  would  finally  crush  me,  and  I  thought, 
with  indescribable  sadness,  of  the  sky,  the  country, 
and  the  free  air  as  of  another  world,  "  Sir,"  said 
the  guide  solemnly  before  going  out,  extending  his 
hand  toward  the  tomb  of  Charles  V.,  "  the  emperor 
is  there,  just  as  he  was  when  they  placed  him  there, 
with  his  eyes  still  open,  so  that  he  seems  alive  and 
speaking :  it  is  a  miracle  of  God  performed  for  pur- 
poses of  his  own.  He  who  lives  will  see."  And 
speaking  these  last  words,  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  as  though  he  was  afraid  the  emperor  might 
hear,  and  led  the  way  to  the  stairs. 

After   the    church  and  the    sacristy  one  goes  to 


268  MADRID. 

visit  the  picture-gallery,  which  contains  a  great 
number  of  paintings  by  artists  of  every  nation, 
although  not  the  best  examples,  for  they  were  taken 
to  the  Madrid  gallery,  but,  at  any  rate,  paintings  of 
sufficient  merit  to  warrant  a  visit  of  a  few  hours. 

From  the  picture-gallery  one  proceeds  to  the 
library  by  the  great  staircase,  over  which  rises  a 
high  vaulted  ceiling  wholly  covered  with  frescoes  by 
Luca  Giordano.  The  library  consists  of  a  hall  of 
great  size  adorned  with  large  allegorical  pictures :  it 
contains  more  than  fifty  thousand  precious  volumes, 
four  thousand  of  which  were  presented  by  Philip  II. 
There  is  also  another  room,  containing  a  very  rich 
collection  of  manuscripts. 

From  the  library  one  goes  to  the  convent.  Here 
the  imagination  of  man  is  lost.  If  any  of  my  readers 
has  read  the  Estudiante  de  Salamanca  of  Espronceda, 
he  will  remember  how  that  indefatigable  youth,  in 
pursuing  a  mysterious  lady  whom  he  met  at  night 
at  the  foot  of  the  chapel  stairs,  followed  her  from 
street  to  street,  from  square  to  square,  from  alley  to 
alley,  turning  and  twisting  and  going  in  circles, 
until  he  reached  a  point  where  he  saw  no  longer  the 
houses  of  Salamanca,  but  found  himself  in  an  un- 
known city,  and  how,  as  he  continued  to  turn  cor- 
ners, cross  squares,  and  hurry  through  the  streets, 
the  city  seemed  to  enlarge  as  he  advanced,  and  the 
streets  to  stretch  away,  and  the  alleys  to  make  a 
thicker  network,  and  how  he  went  on  and  ever  on 


MADRID.  269 

without  rest,  not  knowing  whether  he  was  asleep  or 
awake,  drunken  or  mad;  and  fear  began  to  pene- 
trate his  iron  heart  and  the  strangest  fancies 
crowded  upon  his  bewildered  mind.  So  is  it  with 
the  stranger  in  the  convent  of  the  Escurial. 

You  pass  through  a  long  subterranean  corridor,  so 
narrow  that  you  can  touch  the  walls  with  your 
elbows,  so  low  that  your  head  almost  strikes  the 
ceiling,  and  damp  as  a  submarine  grotto,  until  you 
reach  the  end,  turn  around,  and  find  yourself  in 
another  corridor.  You  go  forward,  come  to  doors 
and  look  through  them  :  other  corridors  stretch  away 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  At  the  end  of  one  you 
may  see  a  ray  of  light,  at  the  end  of  another  an 
open  door  which  allows  you  to  peep  into  a  suite  of 
rooms.  Now  and  then  you  hear  the  echo  of  a  pass- 
ing footstep ;  you  stop  and  the  sound  dies  away ; 
then  it  comes  again,  but  you  cannot  tell  whether  it 
is  over  your  head,  to  the  right  or  left,  behind  or  in 
front.  You  step  up  to  a  door  and  turn  back  ter- 
rified. At  the  end  of  the  interminable  corridor  along 
which  your  glance  has  run  you  have  seen  a  man 
standing  motionless  as  a  spectre,  looking  at  you. 
You  hurry  on  and  come  out  into  a  narrow  courtyard 
surrounded  by  very  high  walls,  grass-grown,  hollow- 
sounding,  and  lighted  by  a  wan  light  which  seems  to 
descend  from  an  unknown  sun — places  like  the 
courts  of  the  witches  of  which  they  told  us  in  our 
childhood. 


270  MADRID. 

You  leave  the  courtyard,  mount  a  flight  of  stairs, 
enter  an  upper  gallery,  and  look  around :  it  is 
another  court,  silent  and  deserted.  You  turn  down 
another  corridor,  climb  another  staircase,  and  find 
yourself  in  a  third  court ;  then,  again,  corridors  and 
stairs  and  suites  of  empty  rooms  and  narrow  court- 
yards ;  and  everywhere  granite,  grass,  a  sickly  light, 
and  a  sepulchral  silence.  For  a  little  while  you 
think  you  can  retrace  your  steps  ;  then  the  mind 
becomes  confused,  and  you  remember  nothing;  it 
seems  as  though  you  had  walked  ten  miles — that 
you  have  been  a  month  in  this  labyrinth  and  can 
never  escape. 

You  approach  a  courtyard  and  say,  "  I  have  seen 
this  already."  No,  you  are  mistaken ;  it  is  another. 
You  believe  that  you  are  in  a  certain  part  of  the 
edifice  when  you  are  in  the  opposite  part.  You  ask 
the  guide  where  the  cloister  is,  and  he  replies, 
"  This  is  it,"  and  you  walk  on  for  half  an  hour. 
You  seem  to  be  dreaming :  you  see  a  succession  of 
long  walls  flitting  past,  frescoed,  hung  with  paint- 
ings, crosses,  and  inscriptions ;  you  see  and  forget 
and  ask  yourself,  "  Where  am  I  ?" 

You  see  the  light  of  another  world ;  you  have 
never  seen  just  such  a  light :  is  it  the  reflection  from 
the  stone,  or  does  it  come  from  the  moon  ?  No,  it  is 
da5rlight,  but  sadder  than  darkness — unreal,  gloomy, 
and  fantastic.  And  as  you  go  on  from  corridor  to 
corridor,  from  court  to  court,  you  look  ahead  with 


MADRID.  271 

misgivings,  expecting  to  see  suddenly,  as  you  turn  a 
corner,  a  row  of  skeleton  monks  with  hoods  over 
their  eyes  and  crosses  in  their  hands  j  you  think  of 
Philip  II.,  and  seem  to  hear  his  heavy  footsteps 
slowly  retreating  through  the  dark  passages ;  you 
remember  all  that  you  have  read  about  him,  of  his 
terrors  and  the  Inquisition,  and  everything  becomes 
clear  to  your  mind's  eye  with  a  sudden  light ;  for 
the  first  time  you  understand  it  all :  the  Escurial  is 
Philip  II.  You  see  it  at  every  step,  you  feel  it  at 
every  breath ;  he  is  still  there,  alive  and  terrible, 
with  the  image  of  his  dreadful  God.  Then  you 
would  rebel  and  raise  your  thoughts  to  the  God  of 
your  heart  and  your  aspirations,  and  conquer  the 
mysterious  terror  which  the  place  inspires,  but  you 
cannot :  the  Escurial  surrounds,  holds,  and  crushes 
you ;  the  chill  of  its  walls  penetrates  to  your  mar- 
row ;  the  gloom  of  its  sepulchral  labyrinthine  pas- 
sages invades  your  soul ;  if  you  were  with  a  friend, 
you  would  say,  "  Let  us  go  out ;"  if  perchance  you 
were  with  a  loved  one,  you  would  clasp  her  to  your 
heart  in  trepidation ;  if  you  were  alone,  you  would 
flee.  Finally,  you  climb  a  staircase,  enter  a  room, 
approach  a  window,  and  with  a  cry  of  gratitude 
hail  the  mountains,  the  sun,  liberty,  and  the  great 
and  beneficent  God  who  loves  and  pardons. 

What  a  long  breath  you  draw  at  that  window ! 

From  it  you  see  the  gardens,  which  fill  but  a  small 
space  and  are  very  simple  5  but  who  can  tell  how 


272  MADRID. 

elegant  and  beautiful  they  are,  and  in  what  perfect 
harmony  with  the  building  I  You  see  twelve  grace- 
ful fountains,  each  surrounded  by  four  plots  of 
myrtle,  which  represent  royal  shields,  designed  with 
exquisite  taste  and  trimmed  with  such  nicety  that  as 
one  looks  down  at  them  from  the  windows  they  look 
like  fabrics  of  plush  and  velvet,  and  form  a  very 
grateful  contrast  to  the  white  sand  of  the  paths. 
There  are  no  trees,  flowers,  nor  arbors :  in  all  the 
garden  one  sees  only  the  fountains,  the  plots  of 
myrtle,  and  the  two  colors,  green  and  white ;  and  so 
charming  is  that  dignified  simplicity  that  one  cannot 
bear  to  leave  it,  and  when  one  has  looked  away  the 
memory  returns  there  and  rests  with  a  sweet  subdued 
sense  of  pensive  sadness. 

In  a  room  near  that  from  which  I  looked  at  the 
garden  the  guide  made  me  look  at  a  collection  of 
relics,  which  I  examined  in  silence,  without  allowing 
him  to  suspect  my  secret  feeling  of  doubt.  There 
is  a  piece  of  the  Holy  Cross,  presented  by  the  Pope 
to  Isabella  II. ;  a  bit  of  wood  stained  with  the  blood 
of  Saint  Lawrence,  which  is  still  visible ;  Saint 
Theresa's  inkhorn,  and  other  objects,  among  them  a 
little  portable  altar  which  belonged  to  Charles  V.,  a 
crown  of  thorns,  a  pair  of  tweezers  used  for  torture, 
found  I  know  not  where.  Thence  I  was  led  to  the 
dome  of  the  church,  from  which  one  enjoys  a 
splendid  view.  On  one  side  the  view  extends  over 
all  the  mountainous  country  which  lies  between  the 


MADRID.  273 

Escurial  and  Madrid ;  on  the  other  one  sees  the 
snowy  mountains  of  Guadarrama ;  below  one  com- 
prehends at  a  glance  the  whole  of  the  measureless 
edifice,  the  long  lead-colored  roofs,  the  towers,  the 
courtyards,  the  cloisters,  the  porticoes,  and  the 
galleries ;  one  may  pass  in  thought  through  the 
thousand  windings  of  the  corridors  and  stairways, 
and  say,  "  An  hour  ago  I  was  below  there — here — 
up  there — down  there — over  yonder,"  marvelling 
that  one  has  made  so  great  a  journey,  and  delighted 
to  have  escaped  from  that  labyrinth,  those  tombs 
and  shadows,  and  to  be  able  to  return  to  the  city  and 
see  one's  friends  again. 

An  illustrious  traveller  has  said  that  after  passing 
a  day  in  the  Escurial  one  ought  to  be  happy  through- 
out the  rest  of  one's  life,  with  the  single  thought 
that  one  might  still  be  within  those  walls ;  and  it  is 
almost  true :  even  now,  after  so  long  a  time,  on 
rainy  days,  when  I  am  feeling  sad,  I  think  of  the 
Escurial,  and  then  look  at  the  walls  of  my  room  and 
congratulate  myself;  in  sleepless  nights  I  see  again 
the  courtyards  of  the  Escurial ;  when  I  am  sick  and 
my  sleep  is  broken  and  uneasy,  I  dream  of  wander- 
ing through  those  corridors  alone  in  the  dark,  fol- 
lowed by  the  ghost  of  an  old  friar,  crying  and  pound- 
ing at  all  the  doors  without  finding  a  way  of  escape, 
until  I  rush  headlong  into  the  Pantheon,  and  the 
door  clashes  on  my  heels,  and  I  remain  entombed 
among  the  sepulchres.  With  what  pleasure  did  I 
VOL.  I.— 18 


274  MADRID. 

see  again  the  thousand  lights  of  the  Puerto,  del 
the  crowded  cafe's,  and  the  great  noisy  street  of 
Alcala!  On  re-entering  the  house  I  made  such  a 
racket  that  the  servant,  a  good  simple  Gralician  girl, 
ran  breathless  to  her  mistress  and  said,  "  I  think  the 
Italian  has  gone  mad  !" 


I  was  more  amused  by  the  deputies  of  the  Cortes 
than  by  either  the  cocks  or  the  bulls.  I  was  suc- 
cessful in  obtaining  a  little  corner  in  the  reporters' 
gallery,  and  went  there  every  day,  staying  until  the 
very  end  with  infinite  pleasure.  The  Spanish  Par- 
liament has  a  more  youthful  appearance  than  ours — 
not  because  the  deputies  are  younger,  but  because 
they  are  nattier  and  better  dressed.  One  does  not 
see  those  dishevelled  heads  of  hair,  those  unkempt 
beards,  and  colorless  surtouts  which  are  to  be  seen 
on  the  benches  of  our  Chamber :  one  sees  smooth 
and  shiny  beards  and  hair,  embroidered  shirts,  long 
black  coats,  light  trousers,  tan  gloves,  silver-headed 
canes,  and  button-hole  bouquets.  The  Spanish 
Parliament  follows  the  fashion-plate.  And  as  is  the 
dress,  so  is  the  speech,  lively,  gay,  flowery,  and 
brilliant.  We  are  continually  lamenting  that  our 
deputies  are  more  careful  of  form  than  is  becoming 
to  political  orators,  but  the  Spanish  deputies  observe 
this  even  more  studiously,  and,  it  must  be  admitted, 
with  even  greater  grace.  Not  only  do  they  speak 


Chamber  of    Deputies  and  Statue    of  Cervantes, 
Madrid. 


MADRID.  275 

with  marvellous  facility,  so  that  one  very  rarely 
hears  one  of  them  pause  in  the  middle  of  a  period 
to  find  a  word,  but,  moreover,  every  one  tries  to 
speak  correctly  and  to  add  to  .his  speech  a  certain 
poetical  lustre,  a  little  classical  polish,  and  a  slight 
impress  of  the  grand  oratorical  style.  The  gravest 
ministers,  the  most  timid  deputies,  the  sternest 
financiers,  even  when  they  use  arguments  utterly 
foreign  to  rhetorical  treatment,  embellish  their 
speeches  with  verses  from  the  anthology,  with 
happy  anecdotes,  and  famous  quotations,  and 
apostrophes  to  culture,  liberty,  and  patriotism ;  and 
they  talk  as  rapidly  as  though  they  were  reciting 
something  committed  to  memory,  with  an  intonation 
always  measured  and  euphonious,  and  a  variety  of 
pose  and  gesture  of  which  one  never  tires  for  an 
instant.  And  the  journals,  in  criticising  the  speeches, 
praise  the  elevation  of  their  style,  praise  the  purity 
of  their  language,  los  pasgos  sublimes  (the  sublime 
flashes),  which  appear  admirable  if  they  are  writ- 
ing of  their  friends,  be  it  understood,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  say  in  disparagement  that  the  style 
is  slipshod,  the  language  corrupt,  the  form — that 
precious  form ! — in  a  word  unpolished,  base,  and 
unworthy  of  the  splendid  traditions  of  Spanish 
oratory. 

This  cultivation  of  form,  this  great  facility  of 
speech,  degenerates  into  vanity  and  bombast,  and  it 
is  true  that  one  must  not  search  in  the  Parliament  of 


276  MADRID. 

Madrid  for  examples  of  genuine  political  eloquence ; 
but  it  is  none  the  less  true,  as  is  universally  con- 
ceded, that  this  Parliament,  among  all  those  of 
Europe,  is  richest  in  oratory  in  the  general  accepta- 
tion of  that  word.  One  should  hear  a  discussion  on 
some  important  political  measure  which  stirs  the 
passions  of  the  deputies.  It  is  a  veritable  battle ! 
There  are  no  longer  sp  eches,  but  torrents  of  words 
which  drive  the  stenographers  mad  and  confuse  the 
heads  of  those  in  the  galleries.  There  are  tones, 
gestures,  violent  expressions,  bursts  of  inspired  elo- 
quence, which  remind  one  of  the  French  Assembly 
in  the  turbulent  days  of  the  Revolution.  There  one 
hears  Rios  Rosas,  a  most  violent  orator,  who  rules 
the  tumult  with  a  roar ;  a  Martos,  an  orator  of  dis- 
tinguished figure,  who  destroys  by  ridicule ;  a  Pi  y 
Margall,  a  venerable  old  man,  who  terrifies  by  his 
gloomy  predictions ;  a  Colantes,  an  indefatigable 
speaker,  who  crushes  the  Chamber  under  an  ava- 
lanche of  words ;  a  Rodriguez,  who  with  marvellous 
flexibility  of  argument  and  illustration  pursues,  en- 
tangles, and  strangles  his  enemies  ;  and,  in  the  centre 
of  a  hundred  others,  a  Castelar,  who  conquers  and 
enslaves  both  friends  and  enemies  by  a  flood  of 
poetry  and  harmony.  And  this  Castelar,  famous 
throughout  Europe,  is  really  the  most  perfect  ex- 
pression of  Spanish  eloquence.  He  carries  the  culti- 
vation of  form  almost  to  idolatry  ;  his  eloquence  is 
music  5  his  argument  a  slave  to  his  ear  j  he  says  a 


MADRID.  277 

thing  or  leaves  it  unsaid,  or  says  it  in  one  sense 
rather  than  in  another,  according  as  it  turns  or  fails 
to  turn  a  period ;  there  is  a  harmony  in  his  mind 
which  he  follows  and  obeys,  and  to  which  he  sacri- 
fices everything  that  can  possibly  offend ;  with  him 
a  period  is  a  strophe,  and  one  must  hear  him  to 
believe  that  human  speech  without  the  cadence  of 
poetry  and  the  aid  of  song  is  able  to  approach  so 
closely  to  the  harmony  of  song  and  poetry.  He  is 
more  of  an  artist  than  a  politician,  and  he  has  not  only 
the  genius,  but  the  heart,  of  an  artist — the  heart  of 
a  child  incapable  of  anger  or  resentment.  In  all  his 
speeches  no  one  can  find  a  ground  of  offence ;  in  the 
Cortes  he  has  never  provoked  a  serious  dispute  of  a 
personal  nature  ;  he  never  has  recourse  to  satire  and 
never  uses  irony ;  in  his  most  violent  philippics 
there  is  no  touch  of  bitterness ;  and  this  is  a  proof 
of  these  assertions :  although  he  is  a  Republican,  an 
opponent  of  all  the  ministers,  an  aggressive  journal- 
ist, a  continual  adversary  to  every  one  who  exercises 
any  power,  and  of  every  one  who  is  not  a  fanatic  on 
the  subject  of  liberty,  he  has  never  had  an  enemy. 
Consequently,  his  speeches  are  enjoyed  and  are  not 
feared ;  his  words  are  too  beautiful  to  terrify ;  his 
character  too  ingenuous  for  him  to  exercise  a  politi- 
cal influence ;  he  does  not  know  how  to  fight,  to  con- 
spire, and  to  accomplish  his  ends  through  bribery ; 
it  is  his  function  only  to  please  and  to  shine :  his 
eloquence  even  at  his  grandest  is  tender,  his  most 


278  MADRID. 

beautiful  speeches  make  one  weep.  To  him  the 
Chamber  is  a  theatre.  Like  an  improvisatore,  to  have 
a  full  and  serene  inspiration  he  is  obliged  to  speak  at 
a  given  hour,  at  a  predetermined  moment,  and  with 
a  certain  period  of  time  at  his  disposal.  Accordingly, 
on  the  day  when  he  wishes  to  speak  he  makes  his 
arrangement  with  the  president  of  the  chamber ;  the 
president  so  disposes  the  business  that  his  speech 
may  begin  when  the  galleries  are  crowded  and  all 
the  deputies  are  in  their  seats ;  his  papers  announce 
his  speech  on  the  previous  evening  in  order  that  the 
ladies  may  procure  tickets,  for  he  must  have  popu- 
lar attention.  Before  speaking  he  is  restless  and 
cannot  be  still  for  an  instant ;  he  enters  the  Cham- 
ber, goes  out,  comes  back,  turns  to  go  out  again, 
hurries  along  the  corridors,  goes  to  the  library  to 
consult  a  book,  rushes  into  a  cafe*  for  a  glass  of 
water,  seems  to  be  stricken  with  fever  :  he  imagines 
that  he  will  not  be  able  to  pronounce  two  words — 
that  he  will  appear  ridiculous  and  be  hissed :  not  a 
single  idea  of  his  speech  remains  clear  in  his  mind ; 
he  has  confused  and  forgotten  everything.  "  How 
is  your  pulse  ?"  his  friends  ask  him  with  a  smile. 
The  solemn  moment  arrives ;  he  rises  from  his  seat 
with  bowed  head,  trembling  and  pale,  like  a  man 
condemned  to  death,  resigned  to  lose  in  a  single  day 
the  glory  won  in  so  many  years  and  with  so  great 
labor.  At  that  moment  his  very  enemies  pity  his 
condition.  He  raises  his  head,  casts  a  glance  around, 


MADRID.  279 

and  says,  "  Senores  /"  He  is  saved  ;  his  courage  is 
renewed ;  his  mind  clears,  and  his  speech  takes 
form  again  like  a  forgotten  air ;  the  president,  the 
Cortes,  the  galleries  vanish ;  he  feels  only  the  irre- 
sistible flame  which  burns  within  him — the  mys- 
terious force  which  sustains  him.  It  is  fine  to  hear 
him  say  these  words.  "I  no  longer  see  the  walls  of 
the  Chamber,"  he  says;  "I  see  distant  lands  and 
people  never  seen  before."  He  speaks  hour  after 
hour,  and  not  a  deputy  leaves  the  hall,  not  a  person 
moves  in  the  galleries,  not  a  voice  interrupts,  not  a 
motion  disturbs  him ;  not  even  when  he  transgresses 
the  rules  has  the  president  courage  to  stop  him ;  he 
pictures  at  his  pleasure  the  image  of  his  republic 
clothed  in  white  and  crowned  with  roses,  and  the 
monarchists  do  not  rise  in  protest,  for  when  so 
clothed  they  too  find  her  beautiful.  Castelar  is  the 
ruler  of  the  Assembly  ;  he  thunders,  lightens,  sings, 
roars,  and  flashes  like  fireworks,  provokes  laughter, 
calls  forth  shouts  of  enthusiasm,  ends  in  a  tremen- 
dous tumult  of  applause,  and  disappears  with  head 
erect.  Such  is  the  famous  Castelar,  professor  of 
history  in  the  university — a  most  fertile  writer  on 
politics,  art,  and  religion ;  a  publicist  who  annually 
receives  fifty  thousand  francs  from  the  journals  of 
America ;  an  academician  unanimously  elected  a 
member  of  the  Acadcmia  cspanola — pointed  out  in 
the  streets,  hailed  with  joy  by  the  people,  loved  by 
his  enemies,  noble,  vain,  generous,  and  happy. 


280  MADRID. 

While  we  are  on  the  subject  of  political  eloquence 
let  us  glance  at  literature. 

Imagine  a  hall  in  the  Academy  full  of  noise  and 
confusion.  A  crowd  of  poets,  novelists,  and  writers 
of  every  sort,  nearly  all  of  them  having  a  French 
air  in  their  expression  and  manner,  although  very 
studious  to  conceal  it.  They  are  reading  and  de- 
claiming from  their  own  works,  each  one  trying  to 
drown  the  voice  of  the  others,  to  the  end  that  he 
may  make  himself  heard  by  the  people  who  crowd 
the  galleries,  while  they,  on  their  part,  put  through 
the  time  by  reading  the  papers  and  discussing  poli- 
tics. Now  and  then  a  clear,  sonorous  voice  rises 
above  the  tumult,  and  then  a  hundred  voices  burst 
forth  together  from  one  corner  of  the  room,  crying, 
"  He  is  a  Carlist !"  and  a  flood  of  hisses  drowns 
the  cry ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  "  He  is  a  Republi- 
can !"  and  another  flood  of  hisses  from  the  other  side 
drowns  the  clear,  sonorous  voice.  The  academicians 
crush  their  papers  into  balls,  throw  them  at  each 
other,  and  shout  in  each  other's  ears,  "  Atheist !" 
—  "  Jesuit !" — "  Innovator !"  —  "  Weathercock  I" — 
"  Traitor !" 

By  listening  attentively  to  those  who  are  read- 
ing one  may  catch  harmonious  stanzas,  well-turned 
periods,  powerful  phrases :  the  first  effect  is  agree- 
able ;  the  prose  and  poetry  are  indeed  full  of  fire, 
life,  flashes  of  light,  and  happy  comparisons,  drawn 
from  everything  that  one  hears  and  sees  in  the  sky, 


MADRID.  281 

the  earth,  and  the  sea ;  and  it  is  all  dimly  lighted 
with  the  colors  of  the  Orient  and  richly  clothed  in 
Italian  harmonies.  But,  alas !  it  is  literature  only 
for  the  eyes  and  the  ears  ;  it  is  only  music  and 
painting ;  on  rare  occasions  the  Muse  drops  a  gem 
of  thought  in  the  midst  of  a  shower  of  flowers,  and 
of  this  bright  shower  there  remains  only  a  lingering 
perfume  in  the  air  and  the  echo  of  a  dying  murmur 
on  the  ear. 

Meanwhile  one  hears  in  the  street  the  shouts  of 
the  people,  the  firing  of  guns,  and  the  beating  of 
drums ;  at  every  moment  some  artist  deserts  the 
ranks  and  goes  to  wave  a  banner  among  the  crowd ; 
they  separate  in  twos  and  threes  and  in  larger 
groups  and  go  to  swell  the  crowd  of  journalists; 
the  turmoil  and  the  continuous  turning  of  Fortune's 
wheel  dissuade  the  most  industrious  from  lengthy 
works ;  it  is  in  vain  that  some  solitary  figure  in  the 
crowd  cries,  "  In  the  name  of  Cervantes,  stop !" 
A  few  strong  voices  are  raised  above  this  clamor, 
but  they  are  the  voices  of  men  who  hold  themselves 
apart,  many  of  whom  will  soon  make  that  voyage 
from  which  there  is  no  return.  There  is  the  voice 
of  Hartzenbusch,  the  prince  of  the  drama  ;  the  voice 
of  Breton  de  las  Herreros,  the  prince  of  comedy ; 
the  voice  of  Zorilla,  the  prince  of  poetry ;  there  is 
the  Orientalist,  Gayangos ;  the  archeologist,  Guerra ; 
a  writer  of  comedies,  called  Tamayo ;  a  novelist, 
Fernand  Caballero  by  name;  Amador  de  los  Rios, 


282  MADRID. 

a  critic ;  Fernandez  y  Gonzalez,  a  novelist  j  and  a 
host  of  other  able  and  productive  writers.  In  the 
midst  of  these  there  still  lives  the  memory  of 
Quintana,  the  great  poet  of  the  Revolution ;  of 
Espronceda,  the  Byron  of  Spain ;  of  a  Nicasio 
Gallego,  a  Martinez  della  Rosa,  and  a  duke  di  Rivas. 
But  the  tumult,  the  disorder,  and  the  discord  burst 
through  like  a  torrent  and  engulf  everything. 

To  leave  allegory,  Spanish  literature  finds  itself  in 
a  condition  similar  to  ours — a  group  of  illustrious 
writers  whose  powers  are  failing,  but  who  have  had 
two  grand  sources  of  inspiration,  religion  and  love 
of  country,  or  both  in  one — men  who  have  left  a 
distinct  and  enduring  mark  in  the  field  of  art ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  body  of  young  men  who  are 
groping  their  way  forward,  asking  what  it  is  they 
have  to  do,  rather  than  actually  doing  it,  wavering 
between  faith  and  doubt ;  either  possessing  faith 
without  courage  or  taught  by  custom  to  simulate  it 
when  they  have  it  not ;  not  even  certain  of  their 
own  language,  and  vacillating  between  the  academies, 
which  cry,  "  Purity  !"  and  the  people,  who  cry, 
"  Truth  !" — hesitating  between  the  weight  of  tradi- 
tions and  the  need  of  the  moment ;  thrust  aside  by 
the  thousands  who  give  fame  or  spurned  by  the  few 
who  seal  it ;  obliged  to  think  in  one  way  and  to 
write  in  another — to  conceal  their  inmost  self,  to  let 
the  present  escape  so  as  not  to  break  with  the  past, 
to  steer  as  best  they  can  between  opposing  obstacles 


MADRID.  283 

Good  fortune  may  be  able  for  a  few  years  to  keep 
their  names  afloat  amid  the  torrent  of  French  books 
which  is  pouring  in  upon  the  country.  Hence  arises 
the  discouragement,  first  to  their  own  individual 
effort,  and  then  to  the  national  genius ;  and  from 
this  follow  imitation  which  sinks  into  mediocrity, 
and  the  abandonment  of  the  literature  of  broad 
scholarship  and  large  hopes  for  the  ease  and  prof- 
itable scribbling  for  the  newspapers. 

Alone  among  so  many  ruins  stands  the  theatre. 
The  new  dramatic  literature  lacks  the  marvellous 
invention,  the  splendid  form,  and  the  pristine 
impress  of  the  nobility  and  grandeur  of  the  old, 
which  was  the  expression  of  a  people  who  ruled 
Europe  and  the  New  World.  Still  less  does  it 
possess  the  incredible  productiveness  and  the  endless 
variety  ;  but,  in  compensation,  it  possesses  a  more 
wholesome  influence,  a  deeper  observation,  a  finer 
delicacy,  and  a  greater  degree  of  conformity  to  the 
true  scope  of  the  theatre,  which  is  to  purify  manners 
and  to  ennoble  the  heart  and  mind. 

In  all  the  forms  of  literature,  moreover,  as  in  the 
drama,  in  the  novels,  the  popular  songs,  the  poems, 
and  histories,  there  always  lives  and  rules  the  senti- 
ment which  informs  the  literature  of  Spain  more 
powerfully  indeed  than  any  other  European  litera- 
ture, from  the  first  rude  lyrics  of  Berseo  to  the 
noble  martial  hymns  of  Quintana — the  sentiment  of 
national  pride. 


284  MADRID. 

And  here  it  is  appropriate  to  speak  of  the  Spanish 
character.  The  national  pride  of  the  Spaniards  is 
still  so  great  to-day,  after  so  many  misfortunes  and 
so  grave  a  fall,  that  the  stranger  who  lives  among 
them  is  doubtful  whether  they  are  the  Spaniards  of 
three  centuries  ago  or  the  Spaniards  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  But  it  is  an  inoffensive  pride,  a 
pride  which  runs  to  harmless  rhetoric.  They  do  not 
depreciate  the  other  nations  which  seem  to  rise  high- 
er than  themselves.  No  ;  they  respect,  praise,  and 
admire  them,  but  show  a  feeling  of  superiority  which 
draws  a  clear  inference  contradictory  to  their  praise. 
They  are  benevolent  toward  other  nations,  with  that 
benevolence  which  Leopardi  justly  remarks  is 
peculiar  to  men  full  of  self-conceit,  who  believe 
that  they  are  admired  by  all,  and  love  their  avowed 
admirers  because  they  think  that  a  duty  attendant 
upon  the  superiority  with  which  they  imagine  fate 
has  blessed  them.  Surely  there  has  never  existed  in 
the  world  a  people  with  greater  enthusiasm  for  their 
history  than  the  Spanish.  It  is  incredible.  The 
boy  who  shines  your  boots,  the  porter  who  carries 
your  valise,  the  mendicant  who  begs  for  alms,  raises 
his  head  with  flashing  eyes  at  the  names  of  Charles 
V.,  Philip  II.,  Hernando  Cortez,  and  Don  John  of 
Austria,  as  if  they  are  heroes  of  his  own  time, 
and  as  if  he  had  witnessed  their  triumphal  entry 
into  the  city  only  the  day  before.  The  people  pro- 
nounce the  word  Espana  with  an  accent  like  that 


MADRID.  285 

with  which  the  Romans  of  the  most  glorious  times 
of  the  Republic  would  have  pronounced  Roma. 
When  they  speak  of  Spain  modesty  is  thrown  aside, 
even  by  men  of  extremely  modest  nature,  without 
the  least  indication  in  their  faces  of  that  exaltation 
because  of  which  one  may  sometimes  pardon  intem- 
perate speech.  They  boast  in  cold  blood,  from  habit, 
without  being  conscious  of  so  doing.  In  the  speeches 
of  Parliament,  in  the  newspaper  articles,  in  the  writ- 
ings of  the  Academy,  they  speak  of  the  Spanish 
people  without  circumlocution  as  a  nation  of  heroes, 
the  great  nation,  the  wonder  of  the  world,  the  glory 
of  the  ages.  It  is  a  rare  thing  to  hear  any  one 
speak  or  read  a  hundred  words  before  an  audience 
without  sooner  or  later  recognizing  the  burden  of 
the  song  in  Lepanto,  the  Discovery  of  America,  or 
the  War  of  Independence,  the  mention  of  which 
always  elicits  a  burst  of  applause. 

And  it  is  precisely  this  tradition  of  the  War  of 
Independence  that  constitutes  to  the  Spanish  people 
a  powerful  inherent  force.  One  who  has  never  lived 
in  Spain  for  a  long  or  short  period  cannot  believe 
that  a  war,  however  fortunate  and  glorious,  could 
leave  to  the  people  so  steadfast  a  faith  in  their 
national  valor.  Baylen,  Victoria,  San  Marcial,  are 
throughout  Spain  even  more  potent  traditions  than 
are  Marengo,  Jena,  and  Austerlitz  in  France.  Even 
the  martial  glory  of  the  armies  of  Napoleon,  seen 
through  the  War  of  Independence,  which  shrouds  it 


286  MADRID. 

like  a  veil,  appears  to  the  eyes  of  the  Spanish  less 
splendid  than  to  any  other  people  in  Europe.  The 
idea  of  a  foreign  invasion  provokes  among  the 
Spaniards  a  smile  of  proud  disdain ;  they  do  not 
believe  it  possible  to  be  conquered  in  their  own 
country ;  one  should  hear  the  tones  in  which  they 
speak  of  Germany  when  it  is  rumored  that  the  em- 
peror William  has  determined  to  uphold  the  throne 
of  the  duke  d'Aosta  with  his  arms.  And  doubtless 
if  they  were  obliged  to  fight  a  new  war  of  independ- 
ence, they  would  fight,  possibly  with  less  fortunate 
success,  but  with  a  bravery  and  constancy  equal  to 
those  which  they  once  so  marvellously  displayed. 
1808  is  the  '93  of  Spain ;  it  is  a  date  which  stands 
out  before  the  eyes  of  every  Spaniard  in  letters  of 
fire ;  they  glory  in  it,  from  the  women  and  the  boys 
to  the  babies  who  are  just  learning  to  lisp ;  it  is  the 
war-cry  of  the  nation. 

And  they  have  a  similar  pride  in  their  writers  and 
artists.  The  beggar,  instead  of  saying  Espana,  says 
sometimes  the  country  of  Cervantes.  No  writer  in 
the  world  has  ever  gained  such  popularity  among  his 
own  people  as  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  in  Spain. 
I  believe  that  there  is  not  a  peasant  or  a  shepherd 
from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Sierra  Nevada,  from  the 
coast  of  Valencia  to  the  hills  of  Estremadura,  who 
if  asked  about  Cervantes  will  not  reply  with  a  smile 
of  complacence,  "  He  is  the  immortal  author  of  Don 
Quixote  /"  Spain  is  perhaps  the  country  where  the 


MADRID.  287 

anniversaries  of  the  great  writers  are  most  generally 
celebrated ;  from  Juan  de  Mena  to  Espronceda,  each 
one  has  his  solemn  day,  when  they  offer  at  his  tomb 
a  tribute  of  song  and  flowers.  In  the  squares,  the 
cafes,  the  railway-carriages,  wherever  you  are,  you 
hear  lines  of  the  famous  poets  repeated  by  all  sorts 
of  people ;  he  who  has  not  read  them  has  heard 
another  read ;  he  who  has  not  heard  them  read  re- 
peats the  quotation  as  a  proverb  learned  from  others ; 
and  when  any  one  repeats  a  verse,  they  all  prick  up 
their  ears.  Any  one  who  knows  a  little  Spanish  lit- 
erature may  make  a  journey  in  that  country  with 
the  assurance  of  always  having  something  to  talk 
about  and  something  with  which  to  inspire  sympathy 
wherever  and  in  whatever  company  he  may  happen 
to  be.  The  national  literature  is  truly  national. 

The  defect  of  the  Spanish  which  from  the  first 
strikes  the  stranger  is  this — that  in  their  estimate  of 
the  affairs,  the  men,  and  the  achivements  of  their  time 
and  their  country  they  over-estimate  their  measure,  if 
one  may  so  speak.  They  exaggerate  everything,  they 
see  everything,  as  it  were,  through  a  lens  that  mag- 
nifies to  vast  proportions.  For  a  long  time  they  have 
had  no  immediate  part  in  the  common  life  of  Europe, 
and  hence  they  have  lacked  opportunity  for  compar- 
ing themselves  with  other  states  and  of  judging  them- 
selves by  such  comparison.  On  this  account  their 
civil  wars,  the  Avars  in  America,  Africa,  and  Cuba, 
are  to  them  not  what  the  little  war  of  1860  and  '61 


288  MADRID. 

against  the  Papal  army,  or  even  the  revolution  of 
1860,  are  to  us,  but  what  we  regard  the  great  Crimean 
War  and  the  wars  of  1859  and  of  1866.  They  speak 
of  the  combats — which  exalt  the  Spanish  armies  in 
those  wars,  sanguinary  doubtless,  but  not  great — as  the 
French  speak  of  Solferino,  the  Prussians  of  Sadowa, 
and  the  Austrians  of  Custozza.  Prim,  Serrano,  and 
O'Donnell  are  generals  who  in  comparison  dwarf  the 
most  illustrious  commanders  of  other  countries.  I 
remember  the  to-do  made  at  Madrid  over  the  report 
of  the  victory  gained  by  General  Merriones  over 
four  or  five  thousand  Carlists.  The  deputies  in  the 
lobby  of  the  Cortes  exclaimed  emphatically,  "  Ah  ! 
Spanish  blood  !"  Some  even  said  that  if  an  army  of 
three  hundred  Spaniards  had  found  itself  in  the  po- 
sition of  the  French  in  1870,  it  would  have  marched 
straight  to  Berlin.  Certain  it  is,  that  one  cannot 
doubt  the  valor  of  the  Spanish,  which  has  been 
proved  on  so  many  occasions,  but  one  may  safely 
assert  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
disorganized  Carlists  and  Prussians  in  battle  array 
— between  the  soldiers  of  Europe,  to  speak  more 
comprehensively,  and  the  soldiers  of  Africa — be- 
tween great  pitched  battles,  where  canister  sweeps 
away  its  thousands,  and  the  combats  of  ten  thousand 
soldiers  on  either  side  with  great  disparity  in 
equipment  and  discipline.  And  as  they  speak  of  war, 
so  they  speak  of  everything  else ;  and  this  is  true 
not  only  of  the  common  people,  but  of  the  upper 


MADRID.  289 

classes  as  well.  They  lavish  high-sounding  praises 
upon  their  writers ;  they  give  the  title  of  grande 
pocta  to  many  whose  names  are  never  heard  outside 
of  Spain ;  adjectives  of  exalted  sublimity  and  won- 
der are  current  coin  given  and  taken  without  the 
least  doubt  of  its  value  as  legal  tender.  One  may 
say  that  Spain  regards  and  judges  everything  like 
an  American,  rather  than  a  European,  people,  and 
that  it  is  separated  from  Europe  by  an  ocean  in- 
stead of  the  Pyrenees,  and  joined  to  America  by  an 
isthmus. 

In  other  points  how  similar  they  are  to  us !  To 
hear  the  people  talk  of  politics,  one  would  think 
one  was  in  Italy :  they  do  not  argue,  they  express 
opinions ;  they  do  not  censure,  they  condemn ;  a 
single  argument  is  enough  for  any  judgment,  and 
to  form  an  argument  an  inference  alone  is  sufficient. 
As  for  this  minister,  he  is  a  rascal;  that  one,  a 
traitor ;  and  this  one  a  hypocrite :  they  are  all  a 
pack  of  thieves.  One  has  sold  the  trees  in  the 
gardens  of  Aranguez ;  another  has  robbed  the 
Escurial  of  its  treasures ;  a  third  has  drained  the 
coffers  of  the  state ;  a  fourth  has  sold  his  soul  for  a 
bag  of  money.  They  have  lost  all  faith  in  the  very 
men  who  have  had  a  hand  in  all  the  political  move- 
ments of  the  last  thirty  years ;  even  among  the 
lowest  people  there  is  creeping  in  a  spirit  of 
discouragement  which  gives  rise  to  the  expressions 
that  one  hears  very  often  and  on  every  side : 

VOL.  I.— 19 


290  MADRID. 

"  Poor     Spain !       Unhappy    country !      Wretched 
Spaniards !" 

But  the  violence  of  the  political  passions  and  the 
fury  of  the  civil  struggles  have  not  changed  the 
foundation  of  the  ancient  Spanish  character.  Only 
that  part  of  society  known  as  the  political  world, 
only  this  is  corrupt ;  the  people,  though  always 
inclined  toward  those  blind  and  at  times  savage 
impulses  of  passion  which  betray  the  mingling  of 
the  Arabian  and  Latin  blood,  are  good  and  loyal  and 
capable  of  magnanimous  action  and  sublime  bursts 
of  enthusiasm.  "  The  honor  of  Spain "  is  still  a 
motto  which  quickens  every  pulse.  And,  moreover, 
their  manners  are  frank  and  refined ;  perhaps  less 
polished,  but  certainly  more  amiable  and  ingenuous, 
than  those  for  which  the  French  are  praised.  In- 
stead of  smiling  at  you,  they  offer  you  a  cigar ;  in- 
stead of  paying  you  a  compliment,  they  press  your 
hand,  and  are  more  hospitable  in  actions  than  in  prot- 
estations. Nevertheless,  the  forms  of  address  still 
preserve  their  ancient  courtliness ;  the  gentleman 
says  to  the  lady,  "  I  am  at  your  feet ;"  the  lady  to 
the  gentleman,  "  I  kiss  your  hand."  Among  them- 
selves the  gentlemen  sign  their  letters  Q.  B.  S.  M. — 
que  besa  sus  manos  (I  kiss  your  hands),  like  a  servant 
to  his  master  j  only  friends  say  Adios ;  and  the 
people  preserve  their  affectionate  salutation,  Vaya 
Usted  con  Dios  !  (God  be  with  you  !),  which  is  worth 
more  than  all  the  kissing  of  the  hands. 


MADRID.  291 

With  the  warm,  generous  nature  of  this  people  it 
is  impossible  to  spend  a  month  in  Madrid  without 
making  a  hundred  friends,  even  though  one  does 
not  seek  them.  Think  how  many  one  might  make 
if  one  did  seek  them !  This  was  my  case.  I  can- 
not say  that  they  were  real  friends,  but  I  was 
acquainted  with  so  many  persons  that  it  did  not 
seem  at  all  like  being  in  a  foreign  city.  Even  the 
illustrious  men  are  very  easy  to  approach,  and  hence 
there  is  no  need,  as  elsewhere,  of  a  pile  of  letters 
and  messages  from  friends  in  order  to  meet  them. 
I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  Tamayo,  Hatzenbusch, 
Guerra,  Saavedra,  Valera,  Rodriguez,  Castelar,  and 
many  others,  some  famous  in  letters  and  some  in  the 
sciences,  and  I  found  them  all  alike — open,  cordial, 
fiery;  men  with  silvered  hair,  but  with  the  eyes 
and  voices  of  young  men  of  twenty ;  passionately 
devoted  to  poetry,  music,  and  art ;  cheerful  and 
animated,  with  a  fresh,  ringing  laugh.  How  many 
of  them  did  I  see,  as  they  read  the  lines  of  Quintana 
or  Espronceda,  grow  pale,  weep,  and  spring  to  their 
feet  as  though  touched  by  an  electric  spark,  reveal- 
ing their  whole  soul  in  a  radiant  glance !  What 
youthful  spirits !  What  ardent  hearts !  How 
delighted  I  was  to  see  and  hear  them — to  belong  to 
that  same  poor  Latin  race  of  which  we  now  say  such 
hard  things !  and  how  happy  I  was  in  the  thought 
that  to  a  greater  or  less  degree  we  are  all  formed  in 
the  same  mould,  and  that,  although  we  may  accustom 


292  MADRID. 

ourselves,  little  by  little,  to  envy  the  qualities  of 
others,  yet  we  are  never  wholly  successful  in  oblit- 
erating our  own ! 

After  three  months  and  more  of  sojourning  in 
Madrid  I  was  obliged  to  take  my  departure,  in  order 
that  I  might  not  be  caught  by  the  summer  in  South- 
ern Spain.  I  shall  always  remember  that  beautiful 
May  morning  when  I  left,  perhaps  for  ever,  my 
dear  Madrid.  I  was  going  to  see  Andalusia,  "  the 
promised  land"  of  travellers,  the  ideal  Andalusia, 
whose  wonders  I  had  so  often  heard  sung  by  poets 
and  romancers  in  Italy  and  Spain — that  Andalusia 
for  whose  sake,  I  may  say,  I  had  undertaken  the 
journey  ;  and  yet  I  was  sad.  I  had  passed  so  many 
happy  days  in  Madrid !  I  was  leaving  so  many  dear 
friends !  On  my  way  to  the  station  to  take  the  noon 
train  I  passed  along  the  Alcala,  saluted  from  a 
distance  the  gardens  of  the  Recoletos,  passed  the 
Museum  of  Painting,  stopped  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  statue  of  Murillo,  and  reached  the  station  with 
an  aching  heart.  "  Three  months  ?"  I  asked  myself 
a  few  moments  before  the  train  started.  uHave 
three  months  passed  already  ?  Has  it  not  been  a 
dream  ?  Yes,  it  seems  as  if  I  have  been  dreaming. 
Perhaps  I  shall  never  again  see  my  good  landlady, 
nor  Senor  Saavedra's  little  daughter,  nor  the  sweet, 
serene  face  of  Guerra,  nor  my  friends  of  the  Cafe* 
Fornos,  nor  any  one  else.  But  what  is  this  1  Shall 
I  not  return  ?  Return  !  Oh,  no  !  I  know  well  that 


MADRID.  293 

I  shall  not  return.  And  so  ...  farewell,  my 
friends  !  farewell,  Madrid !  farewell,  my  little  room 
in  the  street  of  Alduana !"  At  this  moment  my 
heartstrings  seem  to  be  breaking  and  I  must  hide 
my  face. 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


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